Through a Mirror Darkly
by N.L. Rummi
Summary: COMPLETE. Dungeon Master's latest quest leads the Young Ones to a town with many scars. They'll be lucky to leave unscathed.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** This story is copyrighted by Rummi (2004) and is based on characters and ideas owned by others (namely Marvel Productions, TSR, Inc., Saban Entertainment, etc., etc.). Only the events and certain original characters portrayed in this work of fiction are mine. All others belong to the above-mentioned conglomerates, as well as any more recent successors, and are being used without permission. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money is being made by its author. (All I ask for is credit if you wish to copy, distribute, or refer to it and maybe a lil' feedback!) Thank you and enjoy!

**Rating:** **PG-13** for violent situations and mild language.

**Author's Notes:** New fic! New fic! This one's been on my hard drive for a while, but I just didn't have the motivation to work on it while _Legacy_ was still progressing. It won't be quite as long as my last story and is actually set during the show's timeline, rather than as a prequel or a post-Realm sequel. (Definitely after "Winds of Darkness," so I'd place it sometime following the close of the third season.)

Originally, I started writing this in response to a challenge Kimmy had posted at Darkhaven – one that questioned what would happen if Hank really _did_ betray his friends. In the end, it turned out a little differently than I'd planned, but it does have a conflicted Ranger, a crazy bad guy, a few OC's, a bit of Hank/Sheila romance, an occasionally soft Eric, and potential character death. Sound good? Yay, then! Read on!

**Summary:** Dungeon Master's latest quest leads the Young Ones to a town with many scars. And they'll be lucky to leave unscathed. 

* * *

**_Through a Mirror Darkly  
  
by N.L. Rummi_**

_For now we see through a mirror, darkly,  
__but soon we will see face to face.  
__Now I know only partially;  
__but then I shall know fully, as I am fully known.  
__So faith, hope, and love remain, these three;  
__but the greatest of these is love_.

_1 Cor. 13:12-13

* * *

_

**_Prologue_**

The ceremony was lit only by flickering torchlight. The chamber deep within the bowels of the endless catacombs seemed smaller than it actually was due to the large number of people gathered there. They lined the walls and crowded the open floor, gripping weapons of various types, but not brandishing them for battle. Instead, they stood at attention, clutching their weapons ceremoniously. Strangely, regardless of the thick assembly gathered there, the only sounds to be heard throughout the vast chamber were the occasional drip of moisture down the dank rock walls and the crisply-heard proceedings of the ceremony itself. The cavern was chilly and the air hung with the acrid scent of mold, but the group remained still and alert as their eyes focused intently toward the front of the chamber.

Two figures were stationed there, alone and unimpeded by the large crowd that surrounded them. Two men, separated from the attentive throng seemingly by an imaginary barrier. A barrier which none other dared to cross. The two seemed only to focus on each other as the dim torches danced long shadows across the proceedings.

One of the men stood upon the slightly raised dais at the front of the chamber, his arms spread wide. His face was obstructed by a dark mantle shrouding his head; his unseen features seemed hidden in a place beyond where the torchlight could reach. When he spoke, however, his loud voice carried clearly through the chamber, reaching the ears of all who gathered there.

This man was clad in loose black clothing; the squared edges of the hooded black tunic trimmed in red. While his manner of dress was similar to those who surrounded him, he did have one addition to his costume: a white scarf draped across both shoulders which hung down his front, and ended just past his torso. It set him slightly apart from the uniformity around him. If intruders had lived long enough to get a good look at this ceremony, they may have pegged this man as the leader. And they would have been correct; for that was what he was.

With a stern bearing, he reached down to the red sash that surrounded his waist and procured a long jagged sword from its place there, pointing it at the person kneeling before him.

The second figure, who knelt with both knees on the cold stone floor, looked to be a very young man. Blond, well-built, his manner of dress nothing like those around him. He remained a lone splash of bright color against the other black figures who swayed like moving shadows in the torchlight. He faced straight ahead and his arms hung down at his sides, fists tightly clenched, trembling ever so slightly, though the movement was probably unnoticeable to any but himself. He remained otherwise motionless and stoic as the ceremony proceeded.

The first man addressed his followers in a strange tongue. His voice was booming and it resonated throughout the cavern. "_Ballach, ousa welloch este mangast eta oun_!"

"_RACH_-_TA_ _BALLE_!" the multitude cried.

The leader then turned his attention back to the young man in front of him. "_Dok yashe aceptes miora feh_?" he asked as he positioned the gleaming sword point a breath away from the other man's neck.

The second man did not speak. His adam's apple made a drastic plunge in his throat as he swallowed deliberately and hard. Anger, fear, desperation -- forced down his gullet like a mass of cotton, leaving behind a mask of composure. When he replied, it was only with a deliberate nod, pinning the man before him with stony eyes.

With a grin hidden deep within the umbra of his hood, the leader removed his blade tip from the other's throat and moved it to a new position. The young man could feel the cold undulating steel of the sword as it slid down the side of his neck. Even as the blade came to rest upon his shoulder, he continued to feel an icy trickle cascading down his spine.

"Arise then, fellow Assassin," the leader announced, dropping the formality of the ceremonial language. He turned to the table behind him, bringing forth a weapon and presenting it to the young man. "We welcome you, my friend," he continued, "to the Choros Sect."

The young man rose slowly to his feet and turned to face thunderous applause as those around him raised their weapons into the air in honor of the newest member to their order. He tightly gripped the weapon with which he had been presented: a golden, stringless bow.

He reached forward with three fingers and closed them upon the empty space beneath the arc of the bow, pulling back slightly. In his grasp there appeared, as naturally as if it had been there all along, a fiery bowstring and with it, a golden arrow of pure flame. This caused an eruption of even greater applause from the multitude assembled around him. With anxious eyes, concealed within what he hoped was an emotionless face, the young man surveyed the activity below the place where he stood upon the dais – the hooded faces, the raucous cheering, the flashes of firelight upon the raised clanking weapons. He allowed the flaming arrow to evaporate into nothingness again as he released the bowstring from his grasp.

It took him a few moments to notice that the man who had indoctrinated him into the Sect, his new leader, was no longer standing behind him.

At the close of the ceremony, the young man stepped down from the platform and was greeted by several of his new brethren, many of whom had now removed their hoods. He took note of the fact that they were all young; like him -- if not younger. Most looked as though they had never raised a blade to shave their own faces, and yet here they were brandishing weapons of war. He turned back to the dais, scanning above the crowd for the one who had performed the ceremony, but the man was still nowhere to be seen.

Eyes narrowed, the youth set his mouth in a grim line.

After a few minutes of being welcomed by his new peers, he began to sift through the crowd and make his way back to the sleeping chamber which had been pointed out earlier as his own. He was stopped by a gentle hand on his shoulder and he turned around at the sound of a woman's voice.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" she asked. "It didn't seem to be in your blood."

He looked at the slender, dark-clad figure who had spoken. She lightly gripped the corners of her hood and eased it back away from her face, tilting her head back and giving it a gentle shake. Her knot of black hair swung out of the confines of her cape as she did so. She cocked her head to the side and fixed onto his gaze, seeming to ask the question again with her equally-dark eyes as they narrowed at him.

"I told you that I was sure, didn't I?" he replied.

"Can you do it, though?" she continued, her eyebrows furrowed and her stare firm and serious. "Can you do what needs to be done?"

"Would I be here if I didn't think I could?"

The young woman shrugged and surveyed him, her gaze slightly allayed and softer. "I suppose we'll see, Hank. We'll see."

To be continued…


	2. Shadow and Light

**Disclaimer:** All standard disclaimers apply. Don't own the series, but I do own the story. Hope it's enjoyed!

**Rating:** PG-13 for violent situations and mild language

* * *

**_Through a Mirror Darkly _**

**_by N.L. Rummi _**

_And when we're done soul searching,  
__And we carry the weight, die for a cause,  
__Is misery made beautiful right before our eyes?  
__Will mercy be revealed, or blind us where we stand? _

_Sarah McLachlan_

* * *

**_Chapter One - Shadow and Light _**

(Three days earlier)

The people of Xanaton gathered in the town square to hear the announcement. Lloros, the Mage, had come out of his period of seclusion and was returning to the city. The crowd was abuzz, and decade-old rumors were flying once again as to why their wisest elder had ever left. Rumors that would, today, be squelched or confirmed.

Some of the younger, less-informed townspeople said the man had suffered a great personal loss and had gone mad because of it. Others suspected that he simply desired a period of renewal and meditation to restore his magic. There were those who believed that Lloros had gone on a secret quest for which his seclusion was merely a cover. These people also believed that the Mage would make a triumphant return to the city with some great prize. Still others felt it was a combination of the three.

Those closest to him knew better; the ones who remembered the events that prompted his departure.

But whatever Lloros' true reasons for leaving ten years ago, the man was returning now, and the inhabitants of the city of Xanaton, which had always prospered from his magic, were eagerly awaiting his arrival. (If only to settle any wagers made as to why Lloros had gone in the first place, as well as why he was now coming back.)

Days after receiving word of the Mage's journey back to Xanaton, the people had begun to religiously gather in the town square, so all might be present at the hour of his return. After the setting of nearly five suns, the hour was at hand.

At the sound of the lookout's trumpet, two individuals raised their eyes to one of the bartizans of the walled city. It was the signal that the Mage was no more than a few leagues away. As cheers rose into the air throughout Xanaton, the two figures glanced at each other and raised their black hoods as they retreated back into the shadows. The first figure turned and stared hotly at the barren drawbridge of the city, which had been lowered to welcome the absentee Mage back into the arms of his people. The individual beneath the hooded cloak stiffened, but was eased back into a troubled calm by the hand of the other figure firmly gripping his shoulder.

"Patience, my young friend," said a man's deep voice from beneath the second cloak. "In a few short hours, Lloros will arrive. Then, you will see to it that all in this city pay for what they have done to you. You will finally have your revenge."

* * *

"Let's review, shall we?" asked the tall, dark-haired boy who stood before a group of five comrades and one unicorn. "How many times have we _avoided_ catastrophe since seeing Dungeon Master this morning?"

A much younger boy who sat at the first young man's feet raised a balled fist, preparing to ceremonially take the tally. "Ready, Eric," he announced as he patted the small unicorn affectionately.

"Ahem," Eric cleared his throat before beginning. "One -- we avoided getting Venger's attention. Knock on wood," he added, drumming his knuckles against the nearest tree.

"Check!" each of his comrades replied in succession as the young Barbarian raised his thumb.

"Two," Eric strutted importantly before his friends as he continued his list, "we have not yet been attacked by raging Orcs, Lizard Men, Bullywogs, or any of the other random nasties living in this crazy world."

"Check!" The Barbarian's pointer-finger extended to display "two."

"Three -- we haven't run into that 'lost soul that needs to be found' that Captain Short-Stuff was blabbering about."

"Eric," came a semi-annoyed voice to the Cavalier's left. Eric turned from his swaggering to meet the gaze of the group's unofficial leader. While the blond-haired Ranger's tone had that hint of impatience that seemed to be automatically triggered by Eric's antagonism, his eyes held a look that was one of understanding and, sometimes, even grudging agreement. After all, after so many missed chances to get home, it was easy to get frustrated. Nevertheless, Hank shook his head. "We can't avoid the tasks that Dungeon Master gives us," he reminded Eric. "One of these times one of these missions is going to get us home to our own world."

"If I'm not mistaken, Hank, Dungeon Master didn't say anything about us going home this time," Eric responded. "This is probably just some random crusade to find some random someone who needs our help." He crossed his arms and looked irritably at the sky. "I'll never understand why nobody ever gets sent to help _us_! I mean, _we're_ the 'lost-est souls' in this loony bin!"

Hank shook his head again. Someone should have been taking a tally of how many times he's had to get into this conversation with Eric. "I don't know what to tell you," he replied. "All I do know is that we've done a lot of good since we've been here. Can't we at least remember that?"

"Yeah, Eric," interjected a spectacled boy to Eric's right who was cleaning up the remains of what looked like mismatched tableware and shoving them into the interior of a green hat. "Where's your sense of decency?"

"Are you kidding, Presto?" chided the dark-skinned girl who was helping him collect the plates. "Eric got _rid_ of that. He thought it would sharpen his _other_ senses."

"Very funny, Diana," Eric said dismissively as he turned back to the Ranger with another long-suffering roll of his eyes. "And the road is paved with good intentions, blah, blah, blah . . . . Hank, can't I just give thanks for small favors? I'm not saying I don't want to help this 'lost soul,' or whoever it is, all I'm saying is I want to enjoy how well this day has been going for _us_ so far." He then turned to the younger boy on the ground, who still held up two fingers. "Let's go, Bobby! That was 'three'!"

"Oh, right! Check!" Bobby replied, lifting a third finger.

"Meeehhk!" Uni, the little unicorn, bleated in agreement.

"Four," Eric continued, "we were able to find something remotely edible and actually have a half-way decent meal for once."

"Check!" Bobby responded eagerly, patting his satisfied stomach.

"Now," Eric announced, turning to the boy with the glasses on his right, "Presto, it's up to you to make this a perfect day for me."

"Me?" questioned the reedy Magician as he placed his hat back onto his head. "W-what can I do?"

"See what you can do about conjuring up some dessert!"

"Huh?" Presto said confusedly. "That's a weird request, Eric."

"Well," mused the Cavalier as he removed Presto's hat right from the Magician's head again and handed it to him, "since we're obviously not going home today, we could at least get a taste of it. I would seriously _kill_ for a hot fudge sundae. No! Better! Some of Sonja's crème brûlée!" Eric's eyes practically lit up at the thought.

"Who's Sonja?" asked Diana, who had stretched out against a tree to the far right.

"Our cook," Eric answered her. "She makes the best crème brûlée!"

"Hhaayy!" whinnied the unicorn.

"No! Not 'hay'!" the Cavalier corrected. "That's '_brûlée_,' . . . dumb animal," he added in a mutter under his breath.

"Hey!" Bobby retorted in defense of his beloved unicorn companion.

"_No_!" cried Eric again, obviously mistaking Bobby's exclamation for another mispronunciation. "_Brûlée_! Sheesh! Some people have no appreciation for the finer things!"

"Please, Eric! Give us a break!" Diana laughed as she got up and walked back toward the others. "You know _one_ French word and you think that makes you Mr. Sophisticated!"

"Okay! Okay!" Presto exclaimed, raising his hands to settle the argument. "I'll give it a shot, all right, Eric? What's a 'broo-lay' anyway?"

"Crème brûlée," Eric began explaining in a haughty voice, "is a . . . it's . . . um . . . ."

"So much for being acquainted with the finer things," quipped a pretty redhead who had remained silent until now. Hank glanced over at her for a moment, a smile spreading across his face.

Sheila.

Out of all his friends, Hank had to admit she was on his mind the most, and it didn't always have to do with devising the best ways to each use their individual skills to survive life in the Realm, either. In fact, she had been in the Ranger's thoughts for a long time, even before they had all been brought here. A hint of ruefulness entered Hank's smile as he remembered that day at the amusement park. With Diana's help, he had finally mustered up the courage to ask Sheila to go with him. In fact, he was so happy when she accepted, he didn't even mind that she had to bring her little brother along. She had felt very guilty about Bobby joining them, but Hank reassured her that they would have plenty of other chances to do something alone.

He wished he'd have known how wrong he'd been. He probably would have done things a little differently. At the very least, he would have kissed her.

At the time, Hank the High School Senior had finally pushed aside what he felt were his obligations -- responsibilities to family, school, and future -- and done something that would make him happy. Now, however, Hank the Ranger could do no such thing. He had a troop of friends to lead through constant danger, every day risking his life as well as theirs in the hopes of finding their lost home.

Accepting responsibility was always something that had come easy to Hank. Unfortunately, this time, it meant distancing himself from a young woman who he had wanted nothing more than to grow closer to -- a woman who, in spite of the daily perils they faced, he _had_ grown closer to -- a woman he had possibly grown to . . . . Well, he couldn't think about that. Not now. Not yet. And that was what killed him. Accepting responsibility didn't seem as easy anymore.

Yet, he thought as he looked at Sheila, maybe she understood. She always _seemed_ to understand. Not just his overall reasons for doing what he did, but also his feelings from moment to moment. Their date was never mentioned, and seemed to be mutually forgotten during their daily struggles to survive. Even though Hank's and Sheila's reasons for abandoning their date were more dire than most, Sheila never made him feel guilty for the choice he was forced to make. She remained his quiet, encouraging pillar of strength, and Hank looked forward to the day that she would know this. He smiled again. He would get them home . . . and he would pick up where he left off with Sheila.

After a few seconds, the Thief met his gaze and returned his smile. The two then turned back to their bantering friends.

"It's not that easy to explain!" Eric insisted. "It's like a pudding . . . I guess. But not really."

"Gee, that helps!" Presto breathed as he twiddled his fingers over the opening of his magic hat and called forth a hazy purple light from within. "This is for Eric's perfect day!" he announced ceremoniously, almost directly to the hat. _No pressure or anything! _he thought in addition.

"_Abracadabra! Alaca-fates!  
__Hat, give me something  
__To suit Eric's tastes_!"

After the ritualistic bright light and twinkling sparks had subsided, the hat spit out its answer to Presto's request -- in the form of a small, cardboard box.

"Well, what do you know!" Presto exclaimed upon inspection of it.

"Lemme see that!" Eric said, swiping the box out of his friend's hand. "You airhead!" he groaned as he saw what the hat had produced. "This isn't crème brûlée! This is a box of Jell-O!"

"Well," Presto said in his own defense, shrugging as he placed his hat back on his head, "you did say it was like pudding."

"And you couldn't even get _that_ right!" the Cavalier bellowed. "This is just cherry gelatin!" He tossed the box over his shoulder with a frustrated growl.

Hank intercepted it as it flew through the air. "You did say that you wanted a taste of home, Eric," the Ranger reminded him with a grin. He tucked the box into a small pouch that he kept beneath his studded leather tunic. "You never know, maybe we'll get to enjoy it some night."

"And how do you suggest we do that, O wise, illustrious leader?" Eric barked back. "It's powder! What are we supposed to do? Sniff it?"

"Nothing like a sugar high!" Diana muttered to Presto, who was unable to hold in his laughter. She then turned to Eric. "Did Sonja do everything for you, Eric? All you have to do is mix it with water!"

"And keep it cold in what?" he countered. "I don't know about you, but I left my cooler at the last tailgate party Dungeon Master sent us to!"

"I could . . . ," Presto started to offer.

"Never mind!" Eric cut him off. "Forget dessert! I wouldn't trust that dumb hat of yours to burn toast!"

"So much for our perfect day," Bobby sighed to Uni, gazing at his four fingers that he still held up.

"Four out of five isn't bad," Sheila responded optimistically.

"I think we can do better," Diana offered, turning to Bobby with a sly smirk. Clearing her throat, as Eric had done before, she supplied a fifth addition to their list: "Ahem! Five -- Eric has successfully completed his daily hissy-fit!"

Bobby smirked. "Check!" His fifth finger went up.

"There's something satisfying about a perfect track record," Diana sighed. "Wouldn't you agree, Cavalier?"

* * *

At the sound of the second trumpet, the crowd's cheer died down into a hushed whisper. Lloros was very near now. Everyone in town could feel it . . . .

None better than the two dark figures who kept a murderous vigil in the shadows of the square.

* * *

"This is it, gang," Hank announced as, after a long day of walking, the teenage travelers finally approached the gates of Xanaton. "Dungeon Master said that we would find the 'lost soul' here."

"Actually, what he said was, '_The gates of Xanaton shall be the passage to the soul_,'" Presto clarified in a breezy, Dungeon Master-esque voice.

Sheila giggled. "I guess the only thing we know for sure from that statement is we'll find _something_ in this town!" She gazed ahead across the drawbridge as the sound of cheering filled the air. "Or something will find us," she added.

Upon entering the city, the Young Ones found themselves swept up in a bustling celebration. Sheila looked around at the happy, festive people, the jolly minstrels, and the countless food vendors. The scents filling the town square were intoxicating. It had been a long time since they'd even smelled food like that. "Looks like they're having a party, Sis," Bobby exclaimed from beside Sheila.

"Maybe they were expecting us," Eric said, giving a regal wave to the townspeople crowding the balconies above.

"Get real, Eric!" Bobby groaned.

"Everybody here is so happy," Presto said. "How're we gonna find the 'lost soul' in all this?"

"Simple, dummy!" Eric replied, "Just look for the only miserable person in among the village idiots!" He inhaled deeply and his mouth watered as his nostrils caught the scent of a succulent beast roasting in a nearby food tent. The Cavalier grabbed Presto by the collar. "We'll check over here!" he offered as he started to drag the protesting Magician toward the tent. "Relax, Presto," he added. "That vendor doesn't look happy enough to me! We should make sure he doesn't need our help!"

Diana shook her head at the retreating pair. "Always thinking with his stomach," she mused. She then turned back to Hank, who had stopped a passer-by.

"Excuse me," he said to the man, "can you tell us what's going on?"

"Why, my lad!" the man exclaimed. "Do you not know? Lloros is returning today!"

"Who's Lloros?" the Ranger inquired. The man gave him a quizzical look.

"We're kinda from out of town," Bobby interjected from Hank's side.

The man laughed jovially. "Well, my boy," he guffawed as he ruffled the young Barbarian's hair, "welcome, then, to Xanaton! I am Golon. Please, enjoy the festivities, in celebration of Lloros -- our wisest and most powerful magician -- returning finally after ten long years!" With that, the man continued on his way.

"Hank?" Sheila said upon Golon's departure, "are you sure this is the right place? I mean, nobody here seems lost. Everybody's thrilled about this Lloros guy coming back."

"Maybe Lloros is the lost soul," Diana offered with a shrug of her shoulders. "He's not here yet. Maybe they'll need us to go find him and bring him home like we did with Lukion, remember?"

Hank was about to agree to the possibility when a blare of trumpets filled the air. Screams and cheers mingled with cries of "He comes! He comes!" Throngs of people began to swarm the city gates to welcome Lloros home.

"Guess not," Bobby said in response to Diana's conjecture.

"Well, come on, you guys," Hank said with a wave of his arm. "This Lloros may not be lost literally, but there's a reason we're in this city and I've got a hunch he has something to do with it." The Ranger's friends followed him toward the entrance of the city, mingling as best they could with the hordes of people who were eager to catch a glimpse of their beloved Mage.

As the four Young Ones were pushed and jostled among the crowd, Sheila suggested that they fall back and watch from a distance. "That way we can get a better look at everything," she added.

"Yeah," Diana agreed. "We already have one lost soul to worry about. We don't want to lose each other in this mob, too!"

The group of youngsters withdrew to the far corner of the crowd, near an alleyway, and watched as a lone figure stepped into view on the drawbridge. The multitude was strangely hushed as the man slowly made his way toward them. Upon inspection of the man, Hank noted that he seemed very old.

_No, not old. Just . . . feeble . . . sad._

As Lloros stepped further into view, the Ranger could see that he was right. Hank's initial impression of the Mage was that he looked far older than he actually was. The man's hair was long and dark, with only a few light streaks of silver near his temples. But it was stringy and slightly unkempt. He walked with a stick, almost as tall as he was, but did not seem to lean on it for physical support. It seemed to be more of an emotional crutch. Hank took note of the man's face -- or what he could see of it in the way of detail from such a distance away. But he did not need to closely examine it to recognize the look. His features were middle-aged, but his countenance was haggard, careworn, etched with worry and sadness.

Hank's eye narrowed and his thoughts turned to home. He remembered when his neighbor, a close friend of his parents, had lost his wife to an illness. It had only been a few years ago -- although after spending so much time in the Realm it felt much longer. She had died very young and, afterward, her husband was lost without her. Hank remembered seeing the man on the sidewalk from time to time. He had begun to walk with his head hung low, hardly ever looking up and rarely looking people in the eyes. The corners of his mouth seemed to pull down, and to see him even attempt to smile was to witness what looked to be physical pain. Although still very young, he had aged years through his grief.

Hank's heart twisted. This, too, was a man who had lost something very important to him. As Lloros drew nearer, Hank could see, in addition his sunken, tired face, there was a grievous emptiness in the man's dark eyes. "I think that's who we're looking for," the Ranger said, barely above a whisper.

He hadn't realized that Diana had heard him until he felt her hand on his shoulder. He turned to her and she gave him a gentle nod. The excitement of the crowd was almost palpable and Hank thought it was strange that he, someone who had never met Lloros before, knew there was something wrong with him, while his own people didn't seem to notice. They quickly swarmed the Mage as he stepped off the drawbridge and their unleashed cheers filled the air once more.

Had Hank not turned away from Diana and back to the crowd at just that moment, he would have missed it. As he shifted his gaze toward Lloros, something caught his eye -- a bright, fleeting flash, like sunlight glaring briefly off a watch or a mirror. The Ranger squinted the eye that caught the glare and noticed two cloaked figures emerge from the mouth of the alley to his left and make their way swiftly, almost seamlessly, through the dense crowd.

_Funny_, he thought, _I didn't even see them there before._

"Hank?" Diana said questioningly as the Ranger broke away from his friends and stepped quickly toward the crowd of people surrounding Lloros. He did not respond to the Acrobat; he just couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Unable to see the dark pair anymore, he spotted a nearby wagon and climbed into its bed so he could look above the heads of the multitude.

His eyes scanned the area below him and finally settled on Lloros. The man was greeting the townspeople, halfheartedly it seemed, as he continued to walk. Hank couldn't see the cloaked figures anywhere. _Maybe I'm just imagining things_, he thought. Sometimes, in looking so hard to discover the meanings behind Dungeon Master's riddles, they were all guilty of making mountains out of molehills at some point or another. He was about to hop back down off the wagon bed and rejoin Diana, Sheila, and Bobby, who had gathered at the bottom, when he saw something again: the same fleeting bright flash, this time coming from the center of the mob.

Hank's stare focused on Lloros . . . on the area directly behind him . . . on the glint of the suns' light on a raised dagger.

In an instant, the Ranger's bow was at his cheek, arrow of light magically appearing as Hank's fingers sought the once non-existent bowstring. His eyes took a fraction of a second to seek their target . . . then he released.

Screams of terror filled the air as Hank's arrow struck the ground behind Lloros. Much to the Ranger's shock, the dark figure with the blade was no longer standing there. Hank stood upon the wagon with another arrow nocked and ready as his eyes scanned the area below him for Lloros' vanished assailants. It wasn't until Sheila began screaming his name that he snapped out of it. Then he realized his mistake.

"ASSASSINS!"

The cry rose up from the crowd like a curse. At first, the Ranger hadn't thought that the townspeople could be referring to him. His protective instincts, which drove him to save Lloros from the phantom blade, were now the very thing causing him to look quite guilty in the eyes of the people of Xanaton.

While several members of the mob shielded Lloros and began to usher him away, most of the others began to advance on Hank and the others.

"Hank!" Sheila screamed again, "what happened?"

"They must think I was the one who tried to kill Lloros!" the Ranger shouted as he backed up a step on the wagon bed and reluctantly turned his drawn arrow toward the advancing crowd.

Diana's magic staff extended to its full length in her hands with a glowing hum as she struck a combat-ready stance. She kept her eyes on the crowd but directed her voice upward to Hank. "Why did you—?"

"I _saw_ something!" Hank cut her off as he continued to search the area below for the real conspirators. "A knife! Someone was about to—"

"It's them!" a husky voice shouted from across the town square. The Ranger recognized the man who had first welcomed them to Xanaton. The former look of warmth and friendliness in his eyes had been replaced by disbelief and hatred for these newcomers who had dared to attack the town's beloved Mage. "Assassins! They have come for Lloros! Get them!"

His club brandished, Bobby unleashed a wordless battle cry as he struck the ground, knocking the advancing masses off balance momentarily. "Tell them you didn't do it, Hank!" he shouted as the Ranger leapt down off the wagon.

"I don't think they're going to listen, Bobby!" Diana returned, preparing to ward off the coming attacks of the nearest townsmen who had scrambled to their feet and begun to lunge at her.

"Not after what they think they saw me do!" Hank added, drawing his arrow up. "Get back!" he shouted into the crowd. A few of them hesitated briefly upon seeing Hank's drawn arrow. Hank pointed its tip in several directions in an attempt to herd the crowd back. As he did so, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a dark cloak slip around a far corner of the square. "Keep them busy, Diana!" he shouted to the Acrobat. "I'm going after the real cause of all this!"

Hank spun to the left and released his drawn arrow directly into the ground at the base of several townspeople's feet. They fell back, and the Ranger hurdled over their prone forms, taking off toward the alley. As he neared the corner, he felt a jerking tug at the back of his neck. The front of his leather tunic tightened sharply around his throat and cut off his wind as the feeling of whiplash pulled him backward and onto the ground. Dazed, the Ranger rubbed at his throat, then glanced up to see what had happened to him.

Towering above him was Golon, the very man who had welcomed them in the square earlier. The jovial smile Hank remembered had mutated into a hateful sneer as he glared down at the fallen Ranger.

"You dare come to our town in the guise of friends in an attempt to kill Lloros?" the man spat. "You will pay dearly, Assassin!"

Before Hank could protest, Golon's head suddenly jerked forward, then lolled back a bit, his eyes rolling back behind his lids. He slumped to his knees and fell flat onto his stomach directly in front of Hank.

"Can't leave you alone for a second, can I?"

The Ranger's eyes trailed upward to see Eric standing behind the now-unconscious Golon, wielding a large, partially eaten ham hock in his hands. The Cavalier eyed up his makeshift weapon before disgustedly tossing it to the ground beside the fallen man. "Seems like a waste of a perfectly good dinner to me!" he grumbled as he offered Hank a hand to help him up.

"Thanks, Eric," Hank replied as he shot a look over his shoulder to the alley behind him. "Go help the others. I'm going to see if I can put a stop to this!" The Ranger turned and, retrieving his bow from the ground, ran into the shadows of the byway.

"Aye, aye, sir," Eric retorted with a mock salute before spinning in the other direction and racing over to where Diana, Sheila, Bobby, and now Presto were warding off the angered townspeople.

* * *

As Hank rounded the next corner, he came to a dead stop. The side streets of this town were like a labyrinth. The Ranger could see at least four paths in front of him, which separated further into several others. What was worse, the clustered buildings, although not very tall, were so close together that much of the sunlight was barred from the alleys.

_This is no good_, Hank thought to himself. _Whoever they were, they were hard enough to see in broad daylight. How am I going to find them in here?_

Nevertheless, the Ranger drew his arrow for light, and proceeded toward the nearest path.

* * *

Presto, finding himself cornered by several angry men, looked to his friends for help. But they were having troubles of their own. Diana was engaged in a tug-of-war with a burly man who had managed to get a hold of her staff while Eric was shielding both himself and Sheila from the onslaughts of several others. Probably the only one who was having any success at taking on several people at once was Bobby, who continued to keep attackers away from him and Uni by striking the ground incessantly with his club. But even that could only be kept up for so long.

"Presto!" Diana cried strainingly. The man with whom she had been fighting had ceased trying to pull her staff away from her and was now pushing down upon her with all his strength, forcing her to one knee. "Presto!" she cried again as she struggled against the man's weight, "try your hat!"

"O-okay!" the Magician muttered warily as he removed his hat and waved his palm over the opening.

"_Alacazam! Alaca-bob!  
__What I need's a spell  
__to cool down this mob_!"

"Yaaahhh!" The young Wizard concluded his spell with a scream and ducked his head as the nearest person made a grab for him. He instinctively raised his hat out in front of him, its opening aimed toward his attackers. Instantly, a deep chill filled the air. Presto peeked up to see what looked to be a blizzard pouring out of his hat. Large snowflakes and fierce wind spiraled around him and soon extended throughout the entire town square.

"The Assassins have their own wizard!" someone shouted. "Run! Lloros will save us!"

Chaos erupted as the panicked townspeople scattered, for fear of being touched by Presto's magic. As quickly as they had begun their attack on the Young Ones, the crowd dispersed to seek protection from their own Mage.

"Bunch of chickens," Bobby said. "Fraid of a little snow!"

"A _little_?" Eric bellowed, finding himself knee-deep in a drift. He turned to Presto. "How about turning it off now, Jack Frost! I can't feel my feet!"

"Hey! D-d-don't knock it!" Presto replied through chattering teeth. "I got r-r-rid of them, d-d-didn't I?" He shoved the hat back on his head, pulling it down around his ears until the snow stopped falling. By that time, his hair and the shoulders of his robes were completely soaked.

Grumbling as he struggled to free his legs from the pile, Eric accidentally fumbled backwards into a nearby food tent, bringing a wash of quickly-melting snow down onto his head from the low roof. "I think your twiddling needs some tuning," he muttered as he spit out a mouthful of slush, which was running from his hair down his face in sloppy rivulets.

"Guys!" Sheila demanded, interrupting their bantering. "What happened? What was that all about? And where's Hank?"

Eric looked toward the alley into which the Ranger had disappeared a few minutes ago. His eyes trailed down to where Golon still lay unconscious on the ground. He slapped his sodden hair back out of his eyes and turned to Sheila. "I don't know where Hank went, but I'm sure he can take care of himself," he responded. "I do think I can find out the answers to at least two of your questions, though."

Eric, followed by the others, cautiously and deliberately made their way to the downed man.

* * *

Hank's eyes darted back and forth, searching; although he did not even know what it was he was searching for. Whomever he saw trying to assault Lloros in the square, they were very good at not being seen. So much so, that the Ranger wasn't even sure that the two dark figures were still here.

As Hank pressed onward through the shadows, he hoped that his friends had been able to handle that angry mob. Even though finding the real attackers seemed hopeless, he knew that it was the only way to prove that he and his friends weren't the ones to blame.

The Ranger heard a rustle of cloth behind him. He spun around, the arrow that had been providing his light in these dark alleys now blazing even brighter and poised for firing beside his cheek. After so long in the Realm, Hank had discovered that the intensity of his arrows often matched the graveness of the situation and, especially, the Ranger's emotional reaction to it. It was as though the bow knew his thoughts and responded in kind -- matching his fervor and even his level of fear.

There was nothing behind him. Although he seemed to be very much alone, Hank could not help but feel a bit embarrassed by the strength of the arrow's energy in response to his own nervousness. He mentally berated himself for jumping at the first noise like a frightened kid -- never really acknowledging that a teenage kid was, in fact, exactly what he was.

Hank heard the noise again and looked up. Several laundry linens flapped above him in some of the chilly wind that had reached this far into the winding side streets. Hank eased his grip on the bow a bit, bringing it down to his waist as he listened to the air around him. The light arrow lost intensity as he relaxed, but did not vanish completely. This was very fortunate for Hank.

Another sound behind him caused him to spin back in the other direction -- just in time to parry the strike of a long, undulating dagger aimed at his face. Uttering a surprised strangled cry, his arms shot defensively out, thrusting the bow forward. Hank released his drawn arrow straight into the air as he reflexively shoved his weapon upward to block the attack that came down at him.

As the arrow exploded in the sky above in a bright burst of light, Hank's assailant hesitated, briefly distracted by the blast. The Ranger took the opportunity to take aim at the figure before him. The person froze, head tilting within the confines of the black hooded cloak.

"Hold it right there!" Hank demanded, leveling his arrow straight ahead. From what he could see, this person was probably one of Lloros' attackers from the square. _But where's the other one?_ his mind asked fleetingly. However, had he really taken the time to focus on the possibility of another assailant, he may have missed the next strike that came at him.

He saw a slight movement in front of him and took a shaky step back. A white hot pain shot across the clenched knuckles of the Ranger's left hand, causing him to drop his bow. The arrow released, ricocheting off the cobblestone pathway and pinballing between the buildings, out of sight. With a growl of pain, Hank clutched his hand as a deep crimson liquid slowly seeped through his fingers. He stared in disbelief at the person in front of him, whose blade was now stained red along one edge. _What the . . . ? I never even saw the guy move!_ Hank glanced down at his lacerated knuckles and quickly realized that if he hadn't taken that step back, the blade could have slashed right through his wrist.

His attacker didn't waste any time and didn't give Hank the luxury of digesting what had just happened. In a flash, the knife swung at the Ranger again. Hank leapt back, but not before the blade caught the shoulder of his leather tunic, creating a thin slice in the fabric. Hank stood stupefied at his present condition. _If I don't get the upper hand soon, I'm dead!_ he thought frantically.

After always being the one to strategize and think through situations carefully since arriving in the Realm, Hank surprised himself by falling back on an instinct that he had not resorted to for a very long time. Hank waited for the blade of the knife to be momentarily drawn away from him, then he reached back in time to his days on the football team. He raced forward, shoulder first, and made jarring contact with his assailant's body just below the sternum. The impact lifted the person slightly into the air for a moment, then Hank tackled him to the ground, pinning the hand gripping the knife off to the side.

The Ranger clutched his attacker's wrist as tightly as his bleeding hand would allow, lifting it above the ground and striking it hard against the cobbled stone of the alley to force the hand to release the blade.

It did -- and was accompanied by a scream of fury from his previously silent adversary . . . . The wild cry of a woman.

Hank hovered above her in shock for a moment. He snapped instantly back to awareness and used his knee to pin her other arm to the ground. With one hand free, he was able to yank the hood of her cloak from her head, and finally see the face of the person who had tried to kill him.

It was, indeed, a girl. The thing that struck Hank the hardest was the fact that she was practically his own age -- if not a bit younger. As he removed her hood, the girl's thick knot of black hair tumbled out onto the ground beside her head. Her dark eyes flashed with malice as she glared up at the Ranger. She struggled under his weight, her thin boyish frame squirming to free herself, and she emitted a shriek that reminded Hank of a cornered animal.

After several tense and eternal seconds, the girl relaxed in Hank's grip. Turning her head to the side, she almost seemed to sink, defeated, into the ground below her. As her body calmed, Hank took a moment to finally get a good look at her. Her body was wrapped entirely in a black cotton fabric. It wasn't loose-fitting, but not so tight as to hinder maneuverability. Parts of her clothing were trimmed in a deep red, which matched the band that held her thick, black hair away from her face. Her cloak was made of a lightweight fabric, which had flowed easily with the girl's movements when she had been on the attack.

"Who are you?" Hank demanded, glancing around and remembering that he had seen two of these rogues in the square. There was no telling where the other could be.

"My name is Isolde," the girl answered. Her voice was high and deceptively sweet, not at all complementary of the savagery of her previous actions. She kept her face turned from Hank for a few more moments, gazing at nothing in particular down the alleyway. After several seconds, she turned back to him, her face stained with tears. "Please . . . ," she muttered beseechingly.

Hank's brow knotted and his face softened as he looked down upon her. They were both still panting heavily from their battle, but as their breathing evened out, she started to look less and less like a cold-blooded killer. Her watery eyes almost seemed to beg the Ranger for his help.

Maybe she had been forced into her actions. Hank couldn't help but think that that could be the case. They had met so many people here in the Realm who had been forced to do terrible things against their will. This girl . . . she seemed trained to kill, but she looked so sad, so . . . lost.

_Lost? The lost soul?_ At that thought, Hank eased off a bit, loosening his hold on her.

Isolde smiled gently up at him . . . which quickly morphed into a wicked sneer. "Fool!" she growled as she yanked her hand out of Hank's bloody, and now very slippery, grip. Her free right hand dove beneath her cloak and the Ranger floundered backward off her as a crooked scythe came slashing across his chest.

Hank emitted a strangled cry as the hooked blade caught onto one of the studs of his leather armor and tore his tunic open. He stumbled back onto the ground and gazed upward at the girl who now towered over his supine body. He couldn't see where his bow was laying, but his hand still groped wildly for it. He didn't dare remove his eyes from the murderous girl above him.

Isolde took a step toward him, turning the scythe playfully in her hand and giggling maniacally. Her face hardened as her eyes came to rest on Hank. "You robbed me of my revenge, meddler!" she snarled as she raised her weapon. "Now you die!"

The Ranger scrambled back as she advanced, spinning his head desperately away from her to seek his weapon. He heard a sudden pained grunt and twisted back in Isolde's direction in time to see the girl pitch forward and fall onto her hands and knees. Her blade skidded toward him across the cobblestone and Hank moved to intercept it. He hadn't quite risen to his feet when his eyes met Isolde's. There was something familiar about them. His vision lingered there for a split second until the girl's head whipped back in an arc as though kicked. She toppled backward and landed sprawled on the hard ground of the alley, motionless and unconscious.

Hank was finally able to release a pained breath and sank back down to the ground as the ordeal ended, dropping the scythe from his limp fingers. He gazed ahead into the empty space in front of him until, in the next moment, he found himself looking into the materializing face of Sheila. She pushed the hood of her magic cloak all the way back, gasping for breath as she looked at him, her eyes huge and frightened.

The Thief knelt beside Hank and took his bloodied hand, which he reluctantly surrendered to her. She cringed at the sight of it and shook her head as though it pained her to see. Sheila then glanced over to the still form of Isolde.

"My God, Hank," she breathed, "what happened?"

To be continued . . .


	3. Scars

**Disclaimer:** All standard disclaimers apply. Don't own the series, but I do own the story. Hope it's enjoyed!

**Rating:** PG-13 for violent situations and mild language

**Author's Notes:** Several episodes of the series are referenced in this section, with special attention paid to _The Traitor_ and _The Dragon's Graveyard_.

Thanks to the Editorial Queen for the handy beta!

* * *

**_Through a Mirror Darkly_**

**_by N.L. Rummi_**

_But seeing is not the same as believing.  
When everything goes wrong  
You're anything but strong. _

Eurythmics

* * *

**_Chapter Two - Scars_**

"Eric?" Presto asked as he nervously glanced around the emptied streets of Xanaton's town square. The Cavalier was kicking outward with his leg, still trying to shake water out of his boots. "Um, don't you think we should find Hank and Sheila and get the heck outta here already? I think we've worn out our welcome!"

"In a minute!" the Cavalier grumbled impatiently as he attempted to unplug the last vestiges of melted snow from his ear with a wiggle of his pinky finger. Then he stooped down beside the unconscious Golon. "First, I want some answers!"

"Hurry it up then, Cavalier!" Diana returned, her back to him. She stood at the ready, scanning the town square. "It's not like these people are going to let a bunch of so-called 'assassins' hang around in the middle of their city! They'll be back . . . probably with reinforcements!"

"Look," Eric came back irritably, giving Golon's recumbent form a kick from his crouched position, "we came here to help somebody, we ended up getting attacked by a bunch of wackos who think _we're_ the bad guys, and we didn't even get a halfway decent meal. I wanna know what's up!"

Golon groaned and began to open his eyes. As his vision came into focus he found himself staring up at the form of Eric the Cavalier. "All right, you!" Eric began, pointing his shield toward the man. Then he paused, blinking at it for a moment and deciding that a weapon of defense wasn't menacing enough to procure any answers from Golon.

"C'mere, Shrimp," he said to Bobby, yanking the boy toward him by the leather strap. Eric positioned the club-wielding Barbarian between himself and the man on the ground. "Now," he said, redirecting his voice back at Golon as Bobby brandished his weapon, "talk! Why did your people attack us?"

"Choros scum!" Golon spat angrily, "You dare play the innocent? It was your fair-haired accomplice who attacked Lloros! Do with me what you will; my people will not rest until your detestable Sect is wiped out!"

"Is this guy for real?" Bobby asked confusedly. "What's a 'Choros?' What 'Sect?'"

"Look, buster," Diana shot at Golon, still facing the outer square in case any villagers were preparing an ambush, "if Hank did anything, he probably saved your magician's life! He mentioned a knife. Didn't anyone in the crowd see _anything_ besides what Hank did?"

"I'll tell you nothing, witch!" Golon shouted back at her. "You can not have Lloros! You tell Rubin that!"

"Uh, guys?" Presto warned suddenly. "I _really_ think we'd better hit the bricks!"

The Young Ones turned at the sound of a rabble of shouting voices coming from the far end of the town square. The mob was returning, probably armed this time.

Bobby leapt forward with a shout, holding his club aloft. "Bobby, no!" Diana called. "We've got to go!"

"We can't!" the young Barbarian protested. "Hank and my sister aren't . . . ."

As though on cue, the Thief and the Ranger emerged from the alley beyond the square, the latter carrying the unconscious form of another. Without a second thought, Bobby abandoned his fight and raced forward. The six Young Ones met together at the drawbridge and fled the city – not stopping until Xanaton was far in the distance.

* * *

"Too damned trusting," Hank chided himself as Diana did her best to clean his wounded knuckles. The Acrobat hated the fact that she couldn't get her hands on any iodine or something antibacterial in this insane world. She was forced to make due with only water. What was even worse, Hank's hand probably needed stitches. But since the nearest Emergency Room was, it seemed, light years away, this would very likely be another set of scars he would just have to live with. As it was, the Ranger was very lucky that he didn't lose any of his fingers to that crazy girl's blade. 

This heated thought caused Diana to reflexively dab at her friend's lacerated knuckles a bit too roughly. Hank inhaled sharply through his teeth and Diana winced at the idea that she had just caused him more pain.

"Don't beat yourself up," she said in quiet response to his last statement, trying harder to focus on what she was doing. She finished with a makeshift bandage that was actually a piece of cloth "donated" from Isolde's cape. It was the best Diana could have done, but she wished she could do more.

"So, this chick jumped you," Eric stated, reviewing the Ranger's story, "she nearly killed you, and now you want to bring her with us?" He made an open-armed gesture to where Isolde still lay unconscious nearby, bound hand and foot with Hank's arrows and tethered to a tree. "I mean, she's cute, buddy, . . . in a psychotic knife-happy kind of way," he added, "but I never would have guessed that you would go for those _femme fatales_." He turned to Diana. "That's _two_ French words that I know! So there!"

The Acrobat rolled her eyes.

"I can't explain why," Hank replied as he cautiously gripped his now-bandaged hand, "but I have a feeling she's the lost soul we're supposed to help."

"You've got to be kidding me!"

"Like I said, I can't explain it, Eric," Hank shrugged insistently. "There was something about her eyes. Before she attacked me that second time, for a second there, I could just tell that she needed us to help her."

"I knew it!" Presto called from across the campfire.

"Thanks, Presto," Hank said, grateful for the backup.

"I knew I could find something better than a stapler to fix your uniform!" The Magician whipped out a needle and thread, which he had procured from his hat, and reached out for Hank to hand him the slashed tunic.

"Oh," the Ranger muttered with a sigh of frustration. Clearly, it was going to take more convincing for his friends to agree that he might be right about this. He managed to get the heavy outer garment over his head, with Diana's help, and gave it to Presto.

"Don't tell me!" Eric laughed, his attention now completely on the Magician. "_You're_ gonna fix it! He cooks, he cuts hair, and now he sews! Presto, we're gonna have to start calling you Donna Reed!"

"Lay off, Eric," Presto responded dismissively as he sat down to begin work on Hank's over-shirt. "My grandmother's a seamstress. I think I can at least thread a needle. Besides, I'm not tailoring a tux for his wedding or anything, I'm just patching up a few holes."

Hank took the opportunity to direct the conversation toward someone who he hoped would be more likely to take his side. "How did you know to come help me anyway?" he asked, turning to Sheila.

The Thief had been quiet – more so than usual. She seemed to be startled out of deep thought when Hank addressed her. "I saw your arrow in the sky," she replied after a moment. "I thought you were signaling us. I'm just sorry I didn't get there sooner." She quietly eyed his wounded hand.

"Hey, it's okay," Hank said more cheerfully. "You were there when I needed you. That's what counts." Sheila flashed a bright smile at him, but Hank had a hard time determining whether or not it was genuine.

"So," he continued as he turned back to the others, "Golon said that everybody thinks we were assassins sent to kill Lloros. What I want to know is why someone would want him dead. Especially on the day he was just returning to the city after ten years."

Diana nodded. "If someone wanted to assassinate Lloros that badly, wouldn't have it been easier to do it while he was away from the city? Away from the people who love him and would fight to protect him?"

"Golon also mentioned something called a 'choros' and somebody named 'Rubin'," Presto added from his spot where he was doing his best to mend Hank's uniform. "Who, or what, are they?"

"_Good questions all, my Young Ones._"

"Dungeon Master!" Bobby cried as the group turned to see the tiny sage suddenly behind them. "Are we glad to see you! Xanaton was a bust!"

"_Not so, Barbarian,_" Dungeon Master replied. "_You have learned more than you realize._"

"What are you talking about?" Eric groaned. "All we got from that trip is a bunch of unanswered questions, a whole new group of people in this world who hate us, and some unwanted excess baggage!" The Cavalier shot his thumb in the direction of Isolde, who was beginning to stir.

"_Sometimes, my young friends, simply asking the right questions is the first step to having all the answers._" Dungeon Master eyed the girl, a saddened look spreading over his face as he sighed deeply. Without another word, the little man turned and began to walk several steps further into the surrounding woods. The Young Ones stayed close behind him, afraid that he would vanish before telling them anything at all.

When he came to a stop and turned, Uni nuzzled up to him. He raised a gnarled hand and gently patted her head, a bright smile once again radiating toward the Young Ones.

"So?" Eric asked as he and his friends gathered around Dungeon Master. "If you haven't done your disappearing act yet, you obviously have _something_ to tell us. What's the diag-nonsense this time, Dr. Know-It-All?"

"Eric, cut it out!" This irritated rebuttal strangely came from Sheila.

"_The Choros Sect is a league of assassins, to which the newest member of your group belongs_," Dungeon Master explained. "_That much I can tell you. As for the other answers to your questions,_" he paused, "_they are within your reach. But be warned: You may not all be looking in the same place. Take care, my Young Ones. The lost soul must be saved, or many lives may be lost._"

"No pressure or anything," Eric grumbled.

"Dungeon Master, are you saying we didn't find . . . ?" Hank started to ask, before noticing that the little man was nowhere in sight. He let out a heavy sigh. "He's gone."

As the Young Ones made their way back to camp, Hank remained behind for a moment, thinking. What was it that was vaguely familiar about that girl? And why did he, after what she had done, have this strong urge to help her? (Especially when he didn't know for certain that she actually _needed_ helping.) If there was one thing that girl could do, it was take care of herself. Still . . . .

"_Troubled, Ranger?_"

Hank spun around in surprise. "Dungeon Master! We thought you left!"

"_Why would you think that?_" the diminutive mage joked a bit at his own expense. His amiable eyes then settled on Hank. "_You have good reason to be troubled,_" he continued, "_for your path lies in a different direction than that of your comrades. A path that may be very difficult for all of you._"

"Dungeon Master," Hank asked, not acknowledging the mage's previous statement, "is Isolde the lost soul that we're looking for? Or is it someone else?"

Dungeon Master smiled sadly. "_She does need your help, Ranger, as well as your protection. Although she does not know it. However, I fear, that your reasons for doing so, as well as your methods, may not be fully understood by your friends at first. Stay strong, and trust your heart._" With that, he turned and began to walk toward the trees.

Hank also turned to make his way back to the camp. He was surprised to hear Dungeon Master's voice once again from behind him, "_Do not rebuke yourself for being trusting, Ranger. Your leadership abilities are true and you know who merits believing. The one you truly need to have faith in . . . is yourself._"

When the Ranger turned around, it was to the sight of an empty trail and the sound of a gentle breeze. Feeling certain that the Dungeon Master was really gone this time, Hank turned again and walked back toward his friends.

* * *

"Where have you been, Flax?" 

Hank looked down at the sound of the voice. Isolde was gazing up at him with a cocky sneer. Although she was the one bound, she had not lost her antagonizing air.

"How long has she been awake?" the Ranger asked his friends.

"Since we got back to camp," Diana replied.

"Too long, if you ask me," Eric added. "She's been nothing but a bundle of insults and complaining."

"Annoying, isn't it?" Diana asked the Cavalier.

"Yeah! I feel like knocking her out again!" Eric responded, obviously missing the Acrobat's point.

"I know that feeling," she said.

The Young Ones gathered around their campfire to eat dinner. As they had not had the opportunity to find anything more substantial, they were forced to make due with the various fruits and berries that they had been able to gather from nearby. Thankfully, the bread that Presto managed to produce from his hat was a welcome, if a tad stale, addition.

"Flax!" Isolde called from the tree beyond the fire. "What must a girl do to receive some food? Or do you not feed your prisoners?"

"We don't feed people who try to slice and dice our friends!" Bobby retorted, shooting an angry look in Isolde's direction. Uni whinnied in irate agreement.

"These are friends of yours, Flax?" the girl muttered.

"Why do you keep calling me that?" Hank asked as he piled some berries onto a large leaf to bring to Isolde.

Sheila put her hand on Hank's shoulder to keep him from standing. She offered to take the makeshift "plate" and got up to bring it to Isolde herself. "It means 'light'," Sheila clarified as she rose. "Light-haired. Probably just her version of calling you 'Blondie'." The Thief strode over to where the prisoner sat beneath the tree. Hank watched her go.

Sheila placed the berry-filled leaf down in front of Isolde. "Thank you," the girl said in mocking sugary-sweetness. "At least one of you knows how to treat someone. Spend time as a serving wench, did you?" She smiled cruelly at Sheila.

"You listen to me," the Thief said, trying to keep her voice low. It came out sounding small, even to her own ears. She made a second attempt at harshness. "If you had hurt him, you would have paid for it." Sheila hesitantly raised her downcast eyes to meet Isolde's stare in an effort to prove that she meant business. "I promise you."

Isolde's smile widened amusedly. "You're a gentle soul," she said. "I can see it in your eyes. You've probably never made a threat before in your life." Isolde bared her teeth. "Correct?"

Sheila stared hard into the other girl's face, trying desperately to show Isolde that she was wrong; to appear as though she could follow through with a threat if she wanted to. But after a few tense moments, Sheila could only swallow hard and back away. "My thanks again for the dinner, girl!" Isolde called mockingly after her.

"I'd like to see you reach it," Sheila muttered as she strode back to camp.

Isolde noticed that the Thief had placed the leaf with the berries just beyond the range of her feet. She scowled angrily as she stretched her body toward it in an attempt to drag it closer with her foot. The tether of Hank's arrow stopped her just short of the food. In her attempt to stretch a little further, she kicked a corner of the leaf, scattering the berries on the ground. Isolde unleashed a scream of frustrated anger as her dinner rolled away.

Hank looked up questioningly at Sheila as she sat down again beside him. "Everything okay?" he asked.

"Fine," the Thief replied with some forced cheerfulness. She turned her head away from him to hide a grim look of satisfaction as Isolde shrieked again.

* * *

Hank didn't tell his friends about his private conversation with Dungeon Master. He decided that if their guide had intended for the others to know about Isolde and how Hank had to help her, he would have said something while they were all there instead of waiting until Hank was alone. The Ranger only hoped that keeping this secret wouldn't cause his friends to distrust him again. 

"_Your path lies in a different direction than that of your comrades,_" Dungeon Master had said. Hank remembered the pain in their eyes the time they thought he had betrayed them. He cringed at the memory and hoped he wouldn't have to face that again.

"I say we bring her back to Xanaton and let them deal with her," Eric said the next morning as the Young Ones prepared to strike camp.

"We can't do that, Eric," Hank replied.

"I hate to say it, Hank, but Eric has a point," Presto interjected cautiously. "I mean, if we need to find something in Xanaton to save this 'lost soul,' it won't help if we can't go back there. Maybe if we turn Isolde in we'll be welcome in the city again and we can find what we're looking for."

"How do you know we haven't found it already?" Hank asked.

"What? You mean _her_?" Eric shot back. "Look, buddy, are you sure she didn't scramble your brain along with swiss cheesing your uniform? _She - tried - to - kill - you!_ I think you're letting this good Samaritan thing go a bit too far, don't you?"

"Hank," Diana said softly, following the Ranger as he trudged away from the others and toward Isolde, "Eric may not have the best way of showing it, but I think he's worried about you. About this whole situation. I know I am. This girl belongs to a group of _assassins_ – and you said yourself that you saw another one. What if he – or she – is around somewhere? These are people who are trained to be stealthy and trained to kill. I hate to say it, but it seems a bit out of our league."

Hank did not respond.

"Hank," Diana said pleadingly, stopping him from walking any farther and placing her hands on his shoulders to get him to look at her, "we're flying blind here and we don't know where to go for answers. At least if we go back to Xanaton we might be able to make peace or something and figure out what it is we're supposed to do."

The rest of the Young Ones gathered around them. "I'm sorry, guys," Hank said to all of them.

"You still think it's her," Diana guessed, keeping her voice down. "The one we have to save."

"I don't know," the Ranger admitted. "I really don't, but . . . ."

"Well," Presto offered, "if there's one thing I've learned in this crazy place it's that everything happens that was meant to happen. If you really want to do something for her, why don't we just set her free and go our separate ways. If she's the one we're supposed to help, it will probably be just our luck that we'll find her again. And hey!" he added cheerfully. "Maybe by then we'll have the information we need so that we can actually do something useful!"

"Set her _free_?" Eric bellowed, his tone uncomfortably loud among all the other muted voices. He immediately checked himself and continued in a scratchy whisper, "And give knife-girl a chance to come back after _all_ of us? Presto, are you _nuts_?"

But Hank smiled. Nope, Presto was actually one smart guy. He always seemed to have a way of putting things into perspective. However, even Eric had a point. "Go our separate ways? You know, that may not be such a bad idea," Hank said to the Magician. "You guys go back to Xanaton and find out whatever you can."

"'_You guys_'?" Presto repeated. "Somehow that doesn't sound like the suggestion I made."

"Look," Hank said logically as he strode the rest of the distance to Isolde and released her feet from the bondage created by his light arrow, "you said yourselves, we need answers. We also need to know where we're going from here. If we split up, we'll have both." He gripped Isolde's elbow and hoisted her to her feet. She leered at him.

"Not a chance!" Bobby wailed in protest.

"Maahh!" Uni agreed.

"We're not leaving you alone with that . . . that . . . psycho!" The young Barbarian pointed his club at the girl, to which Isolde responded with a dementedly playful tooth-bearing growl. Uni jumped back and the girl sneered.

"I'll be fine," Hank promised. "If what you said is right, Presto, we should be seeing each other again in no time!" Hank's tone was pleasantly optimistic.

"Then I'm going with you," Sheila said suddenly.

The Ranger shook his head. "They're gonna need you in Xanaton," he said. "After what happened, Lloros will probably be heavily guarded. You may be the only one who has the power to get in to see him. You should try to find him and learn why the Choros Sect would want him dead."

Sheila narrowed her eyes at him. "Why don't you just ask _her_ that?" she countered.

Hank blinked in surprise. Normally, Sheila was very supportive of his plans. He hadn't gotten this much contention from her since the time she'd been convinced he had betrayed them all to Venger. And in the weeks following that incident, she almost seemed to overcompensate for her doubt by being extra loyal. He supposed he'd inadvertently gotten used to that. The fact that one of his friends disputed his idea didn't surprise Hank – on the contrary, he'd expected as much; the fact that it was Sheila did. For a moment he was at a loss.

Hank broke away from Isolde's side, but continued to hold the tether that bound her wrists. He stepped toward Sheila and looked down at her. The Thief met his gaze with equal parts obstinacy and frustrated worry, her eyes shifting anxiously as she stared back at him. Finally, she broke the connection and focused her gaze on his bandaged hand, then over his shoulder. Anywhere but back in his eyes.

Hank tilted his head in an unsuccessful effort to get her to refocus on him. "How would we ever know that she was telling us the truth?" he asked softly, both to keep their conversation as privately as possible from Isolde and to try to regain Sheila's full attention.

Sheila didn't look at him again. She turned partially away and backed down without another word.

The rest of his friends, however, were all staring at him, each one just as reluctant as Sheila to do the thing their leader was asking of them. Hank sighed. He didn't want this either. But this was what Dungeon Master had said was supposed to happen. _Your path lies in a different direction than that of your comrades._

"Guys," Hank said finally, "I can't explain my reasons to you. I'm not even sure I understand them myself. I'm not asking you to agree with me, but I am asking you to trust me." His brow wrinkled and he looked at each of them. "Do you trust me?"

After several eternal seconds, Diana sighed deeply, shaking her head with resignation. "Good luck, Hank," she said. "Please be careful."

"I will," Hank agreed. "You, too. Look, everything will be fine. I promise."

With a final glance, the Young Ones reluctantly began their journey back to Xanaton. Hank waited until they were out of sight before turning to Isolde, his hand once again gripping her elbow tightly. "Where are you taking me, Flax?" the girl demanded.

"Let's find this Sect of yours," the Ranger replied as he pushed her in front of him. "Lead the way."

* * *

Sheila glanced back to the empty trail behind her. This was all wrong and Hank knew it. Or at least he _should_ know better than to go traipsing after a gang of assassins by himself. If any of them had tried to make a suggestion like that, he'd have been the first to shoot that idea down. 

_Macho . . . leader . . .**guy**!_

And he was hurt besides.

From the beginning, there had always been a kind of unspoken hierarchy in the group. Hank, he was the leader. He took care of everybody. Naturally. But Sheila – she was the one who took **_care_** of everybody. Not just Bobby. But _everybody_. Including Hank. Even if that meant protecting him from his own heroism.

She always tried to be gentle about it, especially after that whole fiasco where she'd mistakenly thought he'd betrayed the group. That time in the Dragon's Graveyard, for instance, she had delicately attempted to make him understand that the hard choices wouldn't be over once they'd convinced Tiamat to aid them against Venger. That would just be the beginning.

Now, again, it seemed that Hank was making risky decisions in the interest of the group . . . or maybe even in the interest of his own sense of chivalry. (That thought caused the skin on Sheila's cheeks to tingle uncomfortably. She wasn't sure why, and she frowned.) What was worse, it had been three times so far that she had been unable to help Hank through these chances he was taking. She didn't get there in time to prevent his injury . . . and if she'd reached him any later, Sheila couldn't bear to think of what might have happened. She hadn't been able to really stand up to Isolde. And she'd even allowed Hank, himself, to push her into going with the others, when he knew darn well that he should have at least _some_ other person with him to watch his back. If there was one thing this world had taught them, it was to avoid taking needless risks.

_Well_, Sheila thought as she glared hotly at the road behind them, _Hank may not think he needs someone to watch out for him._ She turned back to face the front with a look of fierce determination. _But what he doesn't know . . . ._

When Sheila turned her head, Presto looked over at her, smiling grimly as they walked side-by-side. A moment later, the Magician suddenly felt the sensation of empty space beside him. He stopped abruptly and spun around to see the Thief standing in the road gazing back the way they came.

"Sheila!" he protested, as though he knew what the girl was about to do. His words caused the others to stop and turn around as well.

"I have to," Sheila said with resolve as she took a deliberate step back in Hank's direction.

"Sis!" Bobby cried. "What about Xanaton? What if we need you?"

"With all of you together, I know you can handle it," she responded as she reached for the hood of her cloak.

"Sheila!" Diana took a few running steps back toward her friend as the Thief lifted her hood and vanished from sight.

"Diana," her bodiless voice said a moment later, "take care of Bobby, okay?"

"It's too dangerous by yourself!" Diana protested

"That's exactly why I'm going," Sheila's words ghosted through the air. "Hank may not admit it, but he needs help."

"He doesn't want any help!" Eric shouted at the air around him.

"He doesn't have a choice." Sheila's voice grew more distant as she ran back in the other direction, leaving her friends to proceed to Xanaton without her.

* * *

The first league of their journey was traveled in silence - Hank the Ranger being led by Isolde the Assassin toward who knew what. _Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all,_ he thought. _There's no way I can get word to my friends now._

Hank decided that if he was to discover anything about this girl or what he would have to do for her, he had to learn something about her even if that meant striking up a conversation with the person who tried to kill him.

"So, where are you from?" he began lamely.

"Nowhere," the girl responded.

"I hear that," Hank replied and Isolde turned to him.

"I am astounded by your abilities," she marveled with dry sarcasm. "And by your eagerness to point them out."

Hank laughed a bit in spite of himself. "No," he said. "It means I understand. That I know how you feel."

"If that was what you meant, Flax, why did you not just say it?" she snapped. Then added more quietly, "You speak queerly."

"I told you I understood," Hank replied with a shrug as the pair walked on. "My friends and I are from another world. We weren't born anywhere in this Realm. We were brought here a while ago, and ever since then we've been following Dungeon Master so–" Hank stopped his train of thought. Wasn't he supposed to be finding out about _her_?

Isolde, however, seemed intrigued. "Dungeon Master, you say? Was he the one who brought you here? Away from your home?"

Hank decided that if he was going to get Isolde to open up at all, perhaps he should start by sharing a bit about himself. "We don't really know how we got here, but Dungeon Master has been trying to get us back."

"The Dungeon Master is very powerful from what I have heard," Isolde said. "It seems to me that if he were going to help you get home, he would be able to do more than just _try_."

Hank's eyes gave her a sharp sideways look. _What is she getting at?_ he thought. She really was eager to believe the worst about people. Why was she trying to instill him with doubt regarding Dungeon Master and his intentions? _Man,_ he thought. _I thought I was **too** trusting; this girl doesn't trust anybody at all._ He did not respond to her previous statement, but continued to stare at her sideways as they walked. She did not look back at him, whether she felt his eyes on her or not.

"Perhaps we are not as different as I had thought, Flax."

"Look, my name is Hank. Okay?" the Ranger corrected, giving a small but unnecessary tug on the strand of his arrow that bound her wrists, a little perturbed by her incessant name-calling. He checked his annoyance and asked another question, "What makes you think we're not that different?"

"Very well, _Hank_," she replied, enunciating his name with exaggerated care. "Let us imagine that Dungeon Master has the power to send you home at any time. He must have a reason for not doing so. In keeping you here, he is like a tyrant, holding you under his boot and forcing you to do his bidding."

Hank raised an eyebrow. He found it hard to imagine their guide as a tyrant. (Or wearing boots, for that matter.) After all the missions Dungeon Master had sent them on to help people? After all the good he and his friends had done while following the little man's instructions? A tyrant? Venger, maybe . . . but not Dungeon Master.

"Do you ever think about it, Hank? If he is, indeed, keeping you from your homes and families, would you not want revenge for what he has done to you?"

_Revenge?_ She had Hank's full attention now.

"Is that what happened with Lloros?" the Ranger guessed, focusing the conversation onto Isolde where it belonged. "You said, back in town, that I robbed you of your revenge. Revenge for what?"

"Lloros stole my life," Isolde answered without hesitation. "He killed my father and turned my people against me. He deserves my revenge. They all do."

Hank remembered the pained vacancy in Lloros' eyes as he entered the town square of Xanaton. He found it hard to believe that such a broken-down man was capable of the evil that Isolde was accusing him of. "Why would he do that?" Hank asked, sounding doubtful without meaning to.

Isolde stopped walking suddenly and Hank nearly plowed into her. Her eyes flashed angrily at him. "Who knows why wicked men do the things they do?" she snapped. "Xanaton was my city. My home. My father and I lived there happily until Lloros stole our happiness away from us." Hank listened intently as Isolde's story poured from her lips.

"To think that a _wizard_ would start a witch hunt!" the girl snarled. "He branded my father as an evil sorcerer and had him put to death by his own people. Then he turned his attention to me the so-called devil's offspring! Do you want to see what they did to me, Hank?" The Ranger did not answer, but he did not decline either. So, Isolde turned her back to him.

"Remove my cloak," she instructed. "Loosen the fabric at my back and see the constant reminder of my hatred!"

Hank stood frozen for a moment, unsure if he had heard her correctly. He stared dumbly at the girl's back until she lost her patience. Isolde twisted her shoulders so the cloak fell to one side. When she turned her head to give him an irritated look, Hank finally did as he was told. In lieu of completely removing the cape, he smoothed it entirely over one of her shoulders and surveyed the numerous buttons that lined the rear of her high-necked shirt. There, he hesitated, somewhat from discomfort at the thought of partially undressing this girl (at her insistence, no less), and somewhat from the notion of distrust that he still had for her. Was she merely distracting him so he would fall into some kind of trap?

His sense of duty won out and he reached forward to undo the buttons, relieved that Isolde was facing the other way and could not see his fumbling fingers. It wouldn't do any good for her to see her captor as uneasy, after all. He was _more_ than relieved, for the first time since setting out, that the others weren't here to witness the same thing. He worked his way down, not quite to the small of her back, and the girl's shirt fell open to expose naked flesh . . . and a cluster of horrifying scars.

Hank stared at the grotesque pattern of blemished tissue the scars which snaked across the girl's back. Long, thin fingers of puckered flesh stood as evidence of the kiss of a whip and the possible touch of a branding iron. Unconsciously, and momentarily mesmerized by the horror he was witnessing, Hank pressed his finger to one of them. Isolde flinched at his touch and Hank sharply pulled back. It was as though physical contact with the scars still pained her. It was clear to the Ranger that, while the wounds had healed over long ago, the emotional pain was still there. And, apparently, burning brightly as ever.

"Oh, God," he uttered in a cracked whisper.

Isolde rolled her shoulders back, causing her shirt to fall closed and cover her scars. Hank quickly fastened each of the buttons, his fingers working much more deftly this time. He was more than a little relieved that her naked back was once again covered . . . and especially that he didn't have to look at the scars any more. "When did this happen to you?" he asked in a voice that was still hoarse with reaction.

"Ten years ago," she replied quietly. "I was seven."

When the Ranger made no further response, Isolde turned back to him. "Do you see now, Hank?" she asked, a strange desperate sound in the question. As she faced him, she took a step closer, bringing her face very near to his own. "You said that you understood. Do you?" Hank could feel the nearness of her breath as well as the brush of her hair against his face as it rustled in the light breeze. "Do you really?" Her voice was deep and quiet now.

Hank swallowed hard and gripped her shoulders, easing her back a step. He thought he saw a hint of disappointment in her eyes, but couldn't be certain. After all, he didn't trust this girl any farther than he could throw her.

"Ten years ago," he repeated, all business. "The same time that Lloros left Xanaton. Why would he do that?"

"I told you," Isolde replied in aggravation, "no one knows an evil man's reasons. To find me and finish me off after I fled? To terrorize other innocent families? All I knew was that I needed my revenge –for my father and for myself." The girl looked away from him, her features going blank. For a moment, it seemed to Hank, a flash of pain broke through the harsh exterior. "I can't even remember my father's beautiful face any longer," she said blandly. "Only his eyes. That bastard stole my life. And, thanks to the Choros Sect, I shall soon steal his."

"Tell me about them," Hank pressed.

"They found me when I needed them. That is all you need know," Isolde responded, glaring at him again. The harsh exterior was definitely back. "They gave me the skills and the courage that I needed to carry out my quest."

_Filled you with bloodlust is more like it,_ Hank thought. But aloud, he said something different. "Why wait until now? Why not track him down while he was away from the protection of the city?"

"My revenge is not just on him, Hank," Isolde sneered, "but on all the people of Xanaton. On those who betrayed my father and myself. Those who, on Lloros' order, killed my father and left me to die. They adore him. What better revenge than to slaughter the tyrannical shepherd in full view of the brainless sheep?"

Hank gave the girl a long hard look. "That's pretty tough talk for someone who's never killed anything in her life."

Isolde seemed taken aback. "H-how did you know that?" she stammered.

Hank hadn't known. Not really. He had just gone out on a limb. But if Dungeon Master was right and she needed him to help her, there must be something in her that was worthy of being saved. Hank was fairly certain by this point that Isolde was, indeed, the 'lost soul needing to be found.' She was no cold-blooded killer, and she wouldn't become one if the Ranger had anything to do with it.

Hank straightened his shoulders and summoned a confident voice, so as to cover up the fact that he had been guessing. "I just knew."

"No matter," Isolde returned as she regained her composure. She cocked an eyebrow at him. "I was perfectly capable of killing _you_. And I would have, if not for your interfering consort."

"C-con . . . you mean Sheila? Sheila's a . . . a friend," Hank insisted.

"As you wish," Isolde said with a shrug. "She seemed very protective of you . . . for a friend."

"I think we should start moving again," Hank stated abruptly, changing the subject. He pulled the girl's cloak from where it rested over her one shoulder and allowed it to hang fully down her back. She stood staring at him for a moment before he took her by the elbow again. "Which way now?" he asked.

Isolde's answer was drowned out by an unearthly roar. The ground shook beneath their feet and the Ranger was now holding his bow aloft, searching for whatever it was that had made that noise.

He soon found the source. Circling the sky above them was a large Red Dragon. At the sight of it, Hank's arrow grew even brighter and he took aim at the beast, waiting for it to make the first move.

It did. After circling several passes through the air, the dragon changed course suddenly and dove for them. It inhaled and Hank could tell it was about to unleash a deluge of spewed fire. The Ranger loosed his first arrow, which exploded upon the creature's underbelly. The Red Dragon howled and abandoned its attack. It soared upward again, not giving up but merely collecting itself for a second pass at its prey on the ground.

"Get behind me!" Hank shouted to Isolde as he nocked another arrow.

"Release me and I'll help you!" the girl shouted in response.

"Not a chance!" the Ranger shot back as he eyed the recuperating beast. He gave her an ungainly shove behind him with the elbow that held the arrow. "You'll forgive me if I don't exactly trust you! Besides, a lot of good that knife of yours would do against a Red Dragon! Now get back!" he ordered.

Hank stood his ground with Isolde behind him as the dragon began a second dive-bomb. He fired his next arrow at the creature's face in an attempt to blind it long enough for them to escape. Instead, the dragon quickly unleashed its own flaming breath, intercepting the arrow in midair and overtaking it. The remainder of the flame sped toward the two figures on the ground below.

"Move it!" Hank shouted as he thrust Isolde out of the way. The girl toppled back, out of range of the blaze, while the Ranger leapt forward. He somersaulted upon hitting the ground in an attempt to get behind the airborne dragon, hoping to be able to fire on it from the rear.

He rose to one knee and spun around to get his eyes focused on his target. He easily centered his gaze directly on the posterior of the beast since the Red Dragon had apparently made up its mind that Isolde would be its first victim. The girl struggled to get up from where Hank had shoved her without the use of her hands. The Ranger realized that the dragon was moving too rapidly and, although he would have no problem hitting it and driving it away, it would most likely not be before the monster had devoured the girl.

"Isolde!" he shouted urgently. "Get out of there!"

Isolde managed to stagger clumsily to her feet in time to look up in terror as the Red Dragon opened its jaws to unleash its flame upon her. She screamed. Hank took desperate aim as the fire began descending.

The girl's scream was abruptly cut off by a jerking grunt as she seemed to be struck in the side and hurled several feet away from where the blazing flame struck the ground. Without taking the time to question what had just happened, Hank let loose a fusillade of golden bolts in the beast's direction. On impact, the Red Dragon circled, yowling, into the sky and eventually vanished behind a distant mountain.

Hank got up and ran to where Isolde lay prone on the ground once more. "What happened?" he asked. The girl groaned as though a weight had just been lifted off of her back. Hank watched as a shimmer of cascading light appeared on the ground beside Isolde, which quickly materialized into Sheila as she removed her hood.

"Wh . . . wha . . . ? You . . . ?" Hank stammered. "I thought you had gone with the others."

"You're welcome," Sheila groaned as she rubbed her shoulder and rose to her feet.

"Thank you," Hank corrected himself as he reached down to help her stand the rest of the way. "What are you doing here?"

"I thought you could use some help," the Thief replied, bending down a second time and helping Hank lift Isolde off the ground.

"Your timing is impeccable, girl," Isolde taunted with a grunt as she rose, to which Sheila merely replied with a cold sideways look.

"Did Diana and the others get to Xanaton?" Hank inquired of Sheila.

"I . . . I don't know," she replied reluctantly. "I didn't go with them."

Hank sighed, but didn't seem angry. If the truth be known, regardless of what he had said earlier, he was very relieved to have Sheila with him. "Maybe we can rendezvous with them later," he said.

"If Xanaton is where you truly wish to go," Isolde offered, speaking to Sheila as if to shoo her away, "you'll find it on the other side of that hill."

"What?" Sheila responded, annoyed. "That's impossible! It took me nearly an hour to get here."

"See for yourself, girl," Isolde replied. "And don't feel as though you need to hurry back."

"We'll all go," Hank said, taking the dark-haired girl by the arm again as the three walked toward the hill.

Sure enough, on the other side lay the city of Xanaton. Hank rounded on Isolde, "I thought you were taking me to your Sect! If you were just going to lead me back to the city, we could have stayed with my friends. It would have been safer!"

"Are you saying you would give up the time we spent together, . . . Hank?" Isolde sneered, raising an eyebrow to Sheila. The Thief scowled in response.

Ever the peacemaker, Hank stepped into the tension between the two women. After flashing a quieting glare at Isolde and an apologizing look at Sheila, he turned from them and ran his hand through his hair in frustration. "Besides," Isolde's voice said from behind him, "the Sect is not far off. Another mile, perhaps two."

"So, you've just been leading me around in a big circle?" Hank demanded. "Why didn't you tell me it was close to Xanaton?"

"You never asked me where it was, Flax. You simply ordered me to lead you to it." The girl smiled playfully.

The three youths turned as a multitude of wild cries suddenly filled the air. Someone in the lookout bartizan of the walled city must have spotted them, for now several armed men were racing out of the city gates and making their way up the hill toward them.

"Oh, no!" Sheila cried. "We have to get out of here!"

"A Choros Assassin runs from no one!" Isolde shouted, screaming a battle cry of her own. But with her hands still bound behind her, she could do little else.

"Get back!" Hank shouted to both of them as he drew his arrow. "Take cover!" He released the illuminated dart toward some of the charging townspeople.

Isolde seemed strangely confused when the tail of the arrow merely surrounded the men, roping them together and stopping them in their tracks. Why, with a weapon so powerful and seemingly capable of so much damage, did the Ranger not simply kill the transgressors?

Her moment of surprise was just that: a moment. For in the next instance, Isolde and Sheila found themselves surrounded by several more enraged townspeople - those that Hank alone wasn't able to ward off. One of them made a lunge for Sheila, who lifted her hood and vanished as the man's arms passed right through the spot where she had been standing.

Isolde managed to kick one man in front of her, but was caught by another from behind. With her hands tied, she could make no move to protect herself, and she could only shriek and squirm violently in the man's grasp. She heard Hank's voice shout for her to get down and she ducked her head, feeling her captor's grip release as he was blasted by a light arrow and pinned by his clothing to a nearby tree. A second arrow, following in rapid succession, tore through the bondage around Isolde's wrists, causing it to dissolve. The Assassin took a bewildered moment to look at her freed hands before turning to the Ranger, who was being besieged by several attackers.

"Go!" he shouted to her. She drew her blade. Hank shook his head as he took aim at another of his assailants with his bow. "Go, I said! Run!"

Still bewildered, Isolde managed to force her legs to move. She wrapped her cloak tightly around herself and, while she didn't disappear as Sheila had, her retreating form seemed almost unnoticeable.

Hank fired again at the men in front of him and turned abruptly at the sound of an assailant's shout behind him. He tried to raise his bow again, but was surprised to see the man lurch forward, as though kicked in the posterior. The Ranger stepped to the right as the man tumbled past him down the hill. In the next moment, Sheila appeared by Hank's side once more.

"You've got to get into that city," he called to her as more people started to pour across the drawbridge. "Find the others and find Lloros!"

"Not without you!" Sheila objected.

Hank gripped her shoulders tightly. He looked jerkily from her to the rushing mob, then directly back to her eyes. "You're the only one who can get in now," he insisted, softly but urgently. "They won't let me in unless I'm in chains or dead, apparently. I have to go after Isolde and find the Choros Sect."

The shouts of the men pouring through the city gates caught Sheila's attention, but she turned quickly from them back to Hank, her eyes insistent and panic-wide, pleading with Hank to reconsider.

The Ranger looked fiercely back at her, continuing to hold her gaze with his own. "Please do this for me, Sheila," he said quietly. "I need you."

With his eyes on her like that, Sheila felt an odd twisting in her stomach. She'd forgotten how intense they could be when Hank set his mind on something and she suddenly felt very small and heavy under them. Not unpleasantly, however. It was as though she were being pressed down by lead weights into warm soothing water. His eyes burned with a crystal-blue passion, as they did when it came to his beliefs, his duty, his . . . .

Abruptly, Sheila felt Hank's fingertips press harder into her shoulders. It should have been painful, but she didn't notice. In fact, even the raucous cries of the encroaching mob swirled into a hazy dullness in her mind. At that moment, Sheila was torn. Part of her was convinced that she would unquestioningly do whatever this man said; the other part practically shouted at her that she would be completely crazy to leave his side.

In an instant, however, the decision was made for her. At another cry from the crowd, Hank hastily loosened his grip on her and pulled back slightly. (_And just when had he gotten that close to her, anyway?_) The world around Sheila snapped brusquely back into focus as Hank released her shoulders completely and gripped the hood of her cape, pulling it over her head for her. As she vanished from sight in a glow of silvery luminescence, Hank, not relinquishing his hold on the rim of her hood, paused a moment, then pulled her to him and placed a hurried kiss on her invisible forehead. He released her just as quickly and raced down the other side of the hill in the direction that Isolde had gone.

Sheila stood dumbfounded for a moment as Hank vanished from sight, swaying a bit on her feet. Then she gripped her hood with one hand to prevent it from slipping off, and sprinted toward the gate of the city.

* * *

When he was sure that he had lost his pursuers, Hank slowed a bit to take stock of his position. He was no longer sure where Isolde had gone. Regardless, he continued to walk blindly straight for what felt like a long time, picking his way along a path in the brush. The forest around him was thick and dark and the Ranger needed to draw his arrow for light. 

_Of all the stupid . . . ,_ he rebuked himself for allowing the girl to go free. He'd be lucky if he ever found her in–

Hank froze as the blade of a spear appeared just under his throat. His eyes shifted to where he expected to see more citizens of Xanaton surrounding him. What he did see when he turned his head slightly was the face of a boy not even his own age.

"Not another step, intruder," the boy said in a voice that seemed to be in the throes of puberty. "Or it will be your last!"

Hank lowered his bow and dissolved his arrow, deciding that if he were going to get out of this, much less get inside the Sect, the last thing he wanted to appear was antagonistic. With the arrow gone, everything around them was so much darker now.

"I – I'm not here to hurt you," Hank said, trying for reassuring. "I'm a friend . . . of Isolde's." For as much as he had grown to sympathize with the girl, it was a bitter pill for Hank to swallow to say that he was friends with an Assassin.

"If you can't prove it, I'll cut out your lying tongue!"

Being threatened by a kid who had the same crack in his voice as Presto would have seemed almost laughable had Hank not been in the dire situation himself. Frantically, he tried to think of a way to prove his claim as the boy's blade pressed closer to his throat.

On impulse, the Ranger glanced down to his left hand. "This is a piece of her cloak!" he said strainingly, lifting his bandaged hand for the boy to see.

The young man eased the pressure on Hank's neck. "We shall see," he growled as he redirected the spear's point to the area between Hank's shoulders. "Now walk!" he commanded, yanking the Ranger's bow from his hand.

Hank obeyed and allowed himself to be led into the opening of a hidden grotto and down a slope to a dismal cavern below. The dim glow of torches didn't do much to provide light as the meager flames waved like oily splotches in the inky darkness. They burned sporadically along the walls as the two youths descended. Hank could begin to feel a heavy dampness upon his skin and clothes. The path opened up into a larger chamber, which contained several similarly dressed people. As Hank's eyes adjusted to the dim light, he took in what he could of his new surroundings and prayed it wouldn't be the last thing he saw.

"Korl!" a voice shouted from the far end of the room. Since Hank's eyes were still getting used to the darkness, he had to squint to see what was going on. He managed to make out the form of Isolde running toward him. As she neared, the blade in his back lessened.

"Korl," Isolde said again, "you may release him. He is a friend. He saved my life." Again, Hank's stomach turned at the thought of being considered a friend to people who were trained as murderers.

Isolde finally arrived directly in front of him, a bright smile on her face. It was a strange thing to see, since the girl hadn't done much more than sneer and smirk hostilely since Hank met her. The smile actually looked lively, genuine. It might even make her look pretty if she made a habit of doing it.

"I had a feeling you would come," Isolde said. "I had a feeling that you understood." She tightly gripped his hand, another strange gesture. Her fingers were cold. "Come, Hank," she said. "There is someone I wish for you to meet."

The Ranger allowed Isolde to lead him to another chamber where a lone figure sat with a table of food spread before him. He was an older man, much older than the youths that seemed to make up most of the Sect.

"Isolde, my dear," the man said as the two entered the chamber, "who is this?"

"This is the one I was telling you about," the girl replied. "I believe that he can help us."

"Ah, my boy," the man said, rising from his chair and drawing closer to Hank and Isolde. "She has told me much about you. Welcome, friend, to the Choros Sect."

"Hank," Isolde announced with a proud smile, "this is Rubin."

* * *

Sheila found the others backed up into an alley as more of the angry townspeople rushed by to join the commotion outside the city. She slipped into the byway beside Bobby and removed her hood. 

"Sis!" the boy exclaimed excitedly. "You're okay! Where's Hank?"

Sheila frowned worriedly, but she managed to summon a dutiful voice. "He's gone to find the Choros Sect," she reported. "We got ambushed outside and Hank ran off after Isolde." The Thief quickly explained what had happened since she and the other Young Ones parted company. Well, . . . most of what happened.

Diana stared heatedly out into the street. "Well, Hank may not know it," she said, "but he's probably provided us with about as good a distraction as we're going to get."

"Yeah," Presto agreed, "this town's been going ballistic ever since the cry went up that the 'assassin' was back!"

"Luckily nobody's noticed us yet," Eric said as he directed Sheila's attention to a house across the square. "That's where Lloros is. Now that you're here, we have a better chance of getting inside."

"Do you have an idea as to how we can do that?" Sheila asked.

"As a matter of fact, I do!" the Cavalier responded. "The four of us . . . ."

"Maaah!" Uni bleated in annoyance.

Eric rolled his eyes. "Okay! The _five_ of us are going to charge the house and create a distraction so you can get in and talk to Lloros."

Sheila nodded in agreement and reached for her hood.

"Sheila," Eric stopped her and she turned. "Be careful, all right? And if there's anybody in there besides Lloros or if he tries something funny, just get the heck out of there. We'll try something else."

"Thanks, Eric," the Thief replied. "I will." She lifted her hood completely and vanished.

"Ready?" Diana whispered with a raise of her hand. "NOW!"

The Young Ones came racing out of the alley, weapons at the ready, and sprinted for the front of Lloros' house. "Hey!" Bobby yelled in surprise. "Nobody's trying to stop us!"

Too soon.

As the youngsters approached the door, their path was blocked by Golon and several other townsmen who exited the house. "I told you that you would not reach Lloros, assassins," the man snarled. "We will stop you no matter what it takes."

"Bring it on!" Bobby growled as his club hummed in his hand. In the standoff, no one noticed a set of silent footsteps make their way around the Mage's protectors and into the building.

Sheila looked in each room, holding onto her hood carefully. After checking the entire ground floor, she silently made her way to the upper level where a single room sat at the top of the stairs. Sheila gingerly turned the knob and peeked in to find a man sitting alone.

He turned his head as the door opened and Sheila closed it quickly behind her. She then removed her hood. "It's okay," she said, raising her hands in a calming gesture. "I'm a friend."

The man silently stood up and lifted his arms slightly away from his body, his eyes cast downward. Sheila took a step back, half expecting the Mage to cast a spell. When he did not, she spoke again. "Are . . . are you Lloros?"

"You have found me," the man replied in a sweet, gentle voice that seemed almost relieved. "Finally, you have found me. My life is now in your hands. Make it quick or slow . . . as you wish. But just do it, I beg you."

Sheila was very confused. "Lloros, I'm not here to hurt you," she tried to clarify. "My friends and I are not the assassins you and your people think we are."

"Why?" Lloros immediately crumpled, beginning to sob. He collapsed back into his chair and his body trembled, making Sheila extremely nervous and uneasy. "For ten long years I went searching for death. Not even here can I find it! In the place where it already stole my life!"

"Your . . . life?" the Thief questioned taking a few unconscious steps toward the distraught Mage. Lloros raised his eyes to meet Sheila's. She could see a fathomless sadness in them . . . and something else.

"Ten years ago I set out on a journey," he explained. "Many of my people think it was for meditation or mere reflection upon my grief. They are fools. I left because I wished to find the Sect who murdered my reason for living . . . and beg them to take my life as well." The man doubled over in uncontrolled sobs. "I wish only to be with my daughter again."

Sheila didn't know why Lloros was telling her all this. Perhaps he thought she was lying and that she actually was an assassin sent to claim his life . . . and he wanted her to. Perhaps he was hoping that she, one who was not a loyal city-dweller, would take pity on him and grant his request for death, whether she was an assassin or not. Or perhaps he simply needed to unload some emotional baggage that he could never share with his people, who would forbid that their beloved mage have such thoughts. Whatever his reasons, Lloros allowed Sheila to look into his dark, pained eyes and see into his tortured soul.

And in those eyes, the Thief saw something else. Something that Hank, too, had seen but couldn't quite place. Something that Sheila herself had gotten a very good look at last night in the light of the campfire.

"Your daughter?" she quietly repeated in a breathed whisper. "Oh, God . . . . _Isolde_!"

To be continued . . .


	4. The Ice Chamber

**Disclaimer:** All standard disclaimers apply. Don't own the series, but I do own the story. Hope it's enjoyed!

**Rating:** PG-13 for violent situations and mild language

**Author's Notes:** I'm more than a little embarrassed that this took so long. An unforeseen laptop crash caused me to lose all the revisions I'd made to this chapter. The resulting frustration made me not even want to look at the thing for a long time.

I'd like to dedicate this bit to Masline for giving me the kickstart I needed to get back into this story again. Thanks, dear! (And thanks to EQ for the quickie beta.)

* * *

**_Through a Mirror Darkly_**

_**by N.L. Rummi**_

_Now I keep company with wicked evil men.  
__My generosity is brimming but I'm still inclined to sin._

_EdwinMcCain_

* * *

**_Chapter Three - The Ice Chamber_**

Lloros stared wildly at Sheila. "How do you know that name?" he said in a trembling voice. "What do you know of Isolde?"

The Thief could only gaze at the man before her, mouth gaping. _Lloros was Isolde's father. And he thought she was dead._

"Answer me!" Lloros cried. He seemed more desperate than angry and he took a step toward her. "Were you . . . ?" he stared to ask. "You could not have possibly known her before she died. And you could not have been among the Choros when she was taken from me. No, you would have been far too young. Had she lived, she would only be near your age now."

Sheila struggled to get a grip on herself as the distraught man rambled on. "L-Lloros," she stammered, taking a step back from him. "I'm not among the Choros at all. I told you, I'm not an assassin. Isolde . . . your _daughter_ . . . she's alive."

The mage's face etched with pained disbelief and Sheila suddenly wasn't sure how to continue. _Oh, God_. Should she tell him? _Isolde was the one who tried to kill you in the square yesterday. _

Grief practically rolled off the man in waves; what would news like that do to him? What would Hank say if he were here? Where _was_ Hank?

After a frantic moment of contemplation, Sheila decided to refrain from telling all the details for the time being. This man had spent ten years chasing death so he could be with his daughter again. The news that she was actually alive shouldn't be coupled with the fact that she had spent that same time plotting her own father's murder.

But why? Why would she do that?

After a moment Lloros sank to the ground. His body was wracked with sobs. "You lie," he breathed.

Sheila bit her lower lip and forced herself to take a step toward the crumpled mage. She tentatively laid a hand on his quivering shoulder. "I'm not lying, Lloros," she insisted softly. "I saw her with my own eyes. In fact, a friend of mine is with her right now."

Lloros raised his tear-stained face to look at the Thief. He cocked his head warily and she managed to give him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. "My other friends are outside," she continued. "If you let us, we can help you."

Lloros stared up at Sheila and she shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. His mouth set into a grim line and he slowly rose to his feet. His eyes never left Sheila. Then he turned and strode quickly to the window, where he threw open the shutters. "Stop!" he called into the street below.

Diana, Eric, Presto, Bobby and Uni had been surrounded by a circle of angered townspeople. Everyone raised their eyes as Lloros appeared in the window. "Do not harm them," the mage called down to his people. "Bring them up to me."

"Lloros, no!" Golon pleaded. "These assassins only wish to put an end to you!"

"Please, do not argue with me, old friend," Lloros responded in a muted voice. "Let these children go. Allow them to come to me."

Diana smiled up at the window. "Way to go, Sheila," she whispered as the surrounding mob opened one end of their circle to allow the Young Ones passage into the house.

Lloros turned to Sheila. "I do not know why I believe you, but I do," the man sighed. "Your eyes are as kind as my own Isolde's. Know that if you and your friends can return her to me, I shall be forever in your debt."

Sheila smiled grimly. She wanted to help Lloros . . . and Isolde if that were possible. What she didn't want was for this tortured man to discover that his daughter's "kind eyes" had seemingly been replaced by fiery hatred. The Thief prayed that Hank was all right as she heard her friends' footfalls ascending the stairs.

* * *

"Isolde tells me that you saved her life . . . twice?" Rubin asked the Ranger, resting his squared chin upon his knuckles. 

"Just trying to help," Hank said neutrally as he picked at the plate of steaming mutton that had been set before him. Rubin gave an approving nod to Isolde. The girl sat beside Hank with the glow of a young betrothed, presenting her intended to her father for the first time. She was happy to have been the one to bring the Ranger here – and even more so that Rubin seemed to approve thus far.

"She also tells me that you share a similar past."

Hank narrowed his eyes and looked in Isolde's direction. _Similar past?_ Taking note of the Ranger's apparent confusion, Rubin attempted to clarify. "Oh, you may not have been beaten or scourged as she was. You may not bear the physical scars of the wrongdoing inflicted upon you, but you and she were both driven from your beloved homes by the power of a corrupt wizard." He smiled. "Were you not?"

Hank turned his attention back to Rubin and his stomach clenched uncomfortably. Isolde must have told the man about their conversation regarding Dungeon Master – how she had likened Hank's guide to a scheming tyrant. The hungry glint in Rubin's eyes gave the Ranger the impression that the man was all too eager to believe it, too. But no matter how dire the situation, Hank needed to swallow a great deal of his conscience to agree to such a notion. In his heart, he wouldn't believe it. He couldn't . . . not for a minute. Something told him, however, that a den of assassins was not the ideal place to be playing the devil's advocate. Besides, if agreeing would help him gain the trust of these people – and ultimately win the answers that he was seeking – he would play along . . . for now.

Sending up a silent apology to Dungeon Master, Hank nodded his head.

Rubin's mouth curled even further into an amused smile. "You have come to the right place, my boy," he said, leaning back in his chair. "We can help you win vengeance against those who have wronged you. Would you want that?"

Hank's response was noncommittal. "What would I have to do?"

"For now, simply help Isolde to complete her task," the leader of the Choros Sect replied. "Hers is a very special duty – ten years in the making. If you like, we can begin the initiation ceremony right away." The man continued to grin unctuously at Hank.

The Ranger was uneasy. Considering just how distrusting Isolde had been when they first met, he was surprised by how eager Rubin was to bring him into the Sect. "Listen, Rubin," he said, "I don't want you to think that I'm being ungrateful or anything, but you don't know anything about me. How do you know you can trust me?"

Rubin's smile widened. "Good man," he said. "Loyalty is of the utmost importance here. Those who swear to follow our ways must also swear their allegiance to the Sect." He glanced over at Isolde with a nod and she obediently retired from the room. Rubin then rose off his chair and lowered his face very near to Hank's. He scrutinized the Ranger with ugly mud-brown eyes and continued to smile. "Treachery would come at the cost of your young life."

Hank stared unflinchingly back as the man's acrid breath stung his nostrils. His face showed no fear, but inside he was trembling. He wished that Korl hadn't taken his bow. "When can we start?"

Rubin straightened. "Without discipline, there is chaos, boy," he said. "Punishment for insolence or disorder is severe. You should know what to expect in the event of disobedience . . . or failure. After the ceremony, you will see the Ice Chamber."

* * *

Sheila sat in the corner of the upper room. Her hands were clasped tightly together. After several moments, she raised one, brushing her fingertips against the center of her forehead. 

Hank had never kissed her before. She had certainly wanted him to, but those hopes became secondary after entering the Realm. They had never really gone away, though. Of course, the kiss hadn't been the moment she'd imagined ever since Hank had first asked her to go to the amusement park. At the time, she'd envisioned an innocent peck on her front porch – rushed, for fear that Bobby might see, after successfully shooing him into the house. At the time, she never would have conceived of passionate desperation set outside the gates of a fortified city.

Sheila had the tendency to be as dreamy as the next girl. Even after entering the Realm there were parts of her that had still secretly wished for Hank to kiss her someday. Their lives had become dangerous since arriving here, yet there was an unrefined romanticism to the setting in which they found themselves. And Hank was the hero of the piece. Sheila couldn't help but fantasize about how it might happen.

Then, suddenly, it did.

Granted, it was only her forehead, but still . . . she had wanted it.

So why did remembering it leave her feeling so hollow and empty?

Sheila chewed absently on her bottom lip. She knew it wasn't the fact that Hank had kissed her that bothered her . . . . It was _why_.

It was always the most horrific reasons – the ones that she tried desperately to push away – that insisted on lingering in her mind. No matter how hard she tried, Sheila couldn't shake the notion that he had kissed her because he didn't think he would ever see her or the others again. Imagining him entering alone into a guild of assassins, Sheila worried that he might be right.

Sheila started when Diana suddenly sat down beside her. The Acrobat let out her breath in a whoosh as she processed the story they had just been told. "So, we think that Isolde is Lloros' daughter," she reviewed. "And up until now, everyone in town thought she was dead."

"She was a dear girl," Golon said, not completely trusting the Young Ones yet, but still wanting to offer as much help as possible for the benefit of his friend Lloros. "She was so full of life."

"How did she . . . um . . . die?" Presto asked, feeling a bit foolish about the question since, if it was the same girl, she was actually very much alive.

"Someone set fire to the Great Hall one night," Golon said gruffly. "We were unable to put it out ourselves, so I ran to fetch Lloros. He used his magic to extinguish the flames."

"Huh. A one-man fire department," Eric remarked as he propped himself against an empty table. All the other chairs were taken.

Golon cast him a severe look. "Lloros is a Dowsing Mage," he said as he turned back to the others. "He can call upon the power of water. It is one of the reasons our city has always been so prosperous: Our lands have never known drought or famine. Our closest neighbors are many leagues away. However, with Lloros' magic, we have become self-sufficient. Evil forces wishing to subjugate Xanaton might attack us through the one thing that would leave us vulnerable." He glanced at his friend, then lowered his eyes. "We believe this had been part of the assassins' plan on that night ten years ago."

"When I returned to the house," Lloros said, his voice far away, "my Isolde was gone. Blood . . . was everywhere . . . ."

"And you think it was these Choros Assassins that did it?" Eric asked.

"I knew it," Lloros replied. "Rubin would never pass upon an opportunity to make certain I knew it was him." He walked over to a small chest-of-drawers in the corner of the room beside Sheila. Opening it, he drew out a large jagged scrap of lightweight black fabric. "I found this in her room – a piece of the trademark garment of the Choros Sect. It is known as a stealth cloak, although it is not at all as effective as yours, my dear," he said, turning to Sheila. "It is not meant to make the wearer invisible -- only undetectable. Until it is too late."

The man twisted the material in his hands. "You see, the Choros Sect is led by an evil man known as Rubin," Lloros further explained. "Their way has always been to strike suddenly, and by surprise. But, for Rubin, this is not enough. He wishes to make himself known to his victims. He only wins satisfaction if they know what he is doing to them."

"So what did he have against a seven-year-old kid?" Bobby asked, shifting awkwardly in his spot on the floor. The idea that this man would try to kill a girl who, at the time, had been even younger than himself left him very uneasy. Bobby was suddenly very worried about Hank.

"My Isolde was never his true victim," Lloros explained sadly. "It was me. Rubin sought to destroy me – to break my powers. He also desired revenge upon me, and he took it by taking the one who was most precious to me. He then tortured me for ten years more by moving his Sect underground. He became so elusive that I couldn't find him . . . to finish what he started."

"Lloros," Golon said gently.

"Rubin killed me a long time ago, my friend," Lloros replied. "But I should have known he would never permit me to rest. Forcing me to live with the pain of losing my daughter is closer to his way."

"Uh, Lloros," Eric said, "if we can ask, what happened that Rubin would want revenge on you?"

The mage sighed. "I had him banished from the city," he explained, "I discovered that he had been secretly in league with an evil sorcerer, plotting the takeover of Xanaton. He was to be executed as a traitor, but I had him cast out instead. To him, banishment was far worse than death. He repaid me for sparing his life . . . by stealing mine."

"Why would a sorcerer want to take over your city?" Bobby asked.

"Power, young one," Golon responded. "We are a wealthy and prosperous city, thanks to Lloros and his magic. Wicked forces would certainly seek to control that prosperity . . . or seek to control _us_ by destroying the reason for our good fortune. Evil thrives on power, conquests, and people in fear. Without Lloros, our city would be vulnerable – perhaps dependent on another, less honorable, sorcerer for aid. Rubin was promised great wealth and partial dominion over Xanaton in return for destroying Lloros and helping to conquer us for his master."

"Well," Eric mused, "I guess this kinda explains why all of you were so willing to believe that we were assassins. I mean, if you thought Rubin and his gang killed Lloros' daughter, it makes sense that you would think they'd come back for him."

Golon squinted at the Cavalier incredulously. "We still do not know for certain that your . . . _friend_ . . . is _not_ one of them."

"Now, wait just a minute . . . !" Eric began, but Presto interrupted.

"But if Isolde's really been alive all this time," Presto said, "what's this guy's deal? Rubin, I mean. Why only make you think that he killed her?"

Sheila rose to her feet before anyone could speculate an answer to Presto's question. "We've got to go," she said. "Lloros, we'll get your daughter back." She turned and strode to the door.

Diana stared at her in surprise for a moment before getting up herself. "Let's go, guys!" she called over her shoulder. She caught up with Sheila on the stairs. "That was abrupt," she said. "What's wrong?"

"I didn't tell him that Isolde was the one who tried to kill him," Sheila replied quietly as Bobby and the others joined them outside. "I didn't know what that would do to him."

"Parts of this are actually starting to make sense," Diana said, turning to face all of them. "If Rubin saw exile as being worse than death, wouldn't he want to do the same to the man who banished him?"

"Yeah," Presto agreed. "Forcing Lloros to live without the thing he loves the most would be worse than just killing him. But that doesn't explain why Isolde suddenly wants her father dead."

"Actually it does," Sheila replied. "What could be worse than losing his child for ten years, only to find her again . . . and learn that his enemy has taught her to hate him?"

"We've _gotta_ find Hank!" Bobby said.

"How're we going to do that?" grumbled Eric. "Lloros couldn't find the Choros Sect and he searched for ten years."

"With Hank's help," Diana smiled grimly. "He may have needed to do what he had to do on his own, but he's counting on any information that we learn here. I'll bet Eric's bank account that he left us some way to find him."

* * *

The man's boots echoed hollowly upon the stone floor as he strode to the center of the large, circular chamber. Numerous free-standing torches formed a ring. They lit the inner circumference of the room and left the far walls in eerie shadow. He stood alone in the middle of the otherwise empty space and glanced around. 

It was called the Chamber of Ghosts – partially because the flickering torchlight seemed to dance like ghoulish specters across the air in front of the unseen walls, and partially because the souls of deceased assassins were said to reside here. The man scoffed at the idea of the latter. There was only one dark force that he feared . . . and that one was on its way here.

"Why did you summon me, Rubin?"

Rubin fell to his knees as the menacing voice reverberated through the room. "Welcome, my Master," he cowered. "It has been too long."

"Agreed," the voice thundered. "You are most fortunate that I did not destroy you for failing me the last time."

"My Master is most generous and merciful," Rubin replied, prostrating himself.

"I make no promise that it will remain that way. Why did you call me here?"

"I seek to make amends for my failure," the Assassin said, rising to his feet. "I shall not disappoint you this time. Not only will Xanaton fall, but I have something else that you want as well."

"Continue," the bodiless voice responded with interest.

"It appears that one of the allies of your old adversary has come to be in our midst."

"Yes. The young Ranger."

"You know, my Lord?"

"Very little escapes me where Dungeon Master and his loathsome pupils are concerned."

"He seems to be seeking to protect Lloros' girl," Rubin said. "He has even offered to join the Sect . . . possibly to remain close to her."

"Let him," the icy voice dripped from the shadows all around the room. "The Ranger is a trusting fool. He would quickly waste his life to protect another. Even one as expendable as that girl."

"Are you certain about that?"

"Rubin, I am counting on it. And I am counting on you to see to it that it is done. Lloros and Xanaton will fall to me. You will have your revenge on that accursed wizard using his daughter, whom he thought was lost. And I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that Dungeon Master has lost something very dear to him as well. Without the Ranger, the other Young Ones will be broken . . . and the entire Realm shall soon be mine."

Rubin bowed his head low. "I shall not fail you again, Master."

A pair of malevolent, crimson eyes flashed from the darkness beyond the shadows. "See that you do not, Rubin. Or, I promise you, this time your punishment will be severe."

The glow of the eyes extinguished. There was a rustle of flowing garments and the pungent scent of dark magic. Rubin shuddered as he found himself alone in the Chamber of Ghosts.

* * *

Hank was very grateful to have gotten his bow back during the course of the initiation ceremony. He had felt extremely vulnerable in its absence. Of course, he had been forced to be without it before, but never all alone. Again the thought struck him that it wasn't such a great idea to be doing this without the others. 

He sat alone in the cell-like chamber that Rubin had given to him as his room. _All the comforts of home_, he thought ironically to himself as he poked at the moth-eaten mattress with his bow. He leaned back in the rickety wooden chair in which he sat – the only other piece of furniture in the room besides the bed. There was also a full water-skin hanging from the headboard. The Ranger took a drink from it to clear his head.

_Okay, Hank, you're in. Now what do you do?_

After a few moments, he heard a soft knocking upon the door. He replaced the water-skin and rose to his feet. Reaching for the knob, Hank half-expected to find it locked. This room was more like a prison, after all. The door did open, however, to the face of Isolde standing there.

"Are you settling in?" she asked.

"Not exactly the Ritz, but it'll do," Hank replied, evoking a confused look from the girl. "Never mind." He managed a small laugh.

Isolde walked past him into the room. Although Hank had seen her move with such fluid grace when fighting, he noticed that she held herself rather stiffly now. He also noticed that, for the first time, her hair was released from its tight thick knot. It now hung like a dark drape upon her shoulders. She turned to face him. The fingers of one hand fidgeted restlessly with the tips of her hair.

She looked younger this way – more innocent.

"Hank," Isolde said. Her previous aggression was gone. The girl suddenly seemed awkwardly shy as she cast sporadic glances at him coyly through her dark lashes. "I wanted to speak with you about—"

The girl's words were cut off by a sudden adolescent scream. Hank's face jerked toward the door and he stepped away from Isolde, who didn't seem shocked or concerned by the abrupt cry. "Hank!" she called as the Ranger ran out into the hall. He headed in the direction of the uproar. She followed a few steps behind him.

Hank pushed his way through a crowd of young assassins who had gathered in the main hall. There, he found the one named Korl lying on the ground, curled into a fetal position. Isolde caught up to Hank just as the Ranger's eyes focused on the form of Rubin towering over the boy. There was fire in the man's eyes.

Hank watched as the assassins' leader drew his foot back. The Ranger's body jolted in response to the swift kick that Rubin delivered to Korl's already quivering form. Angrily, he made an instinctive move toward the man to stop him. Isolde's hand caught his arm.

"Don't, Hank," she said. "It must be this way."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Hank shot back at her as Rubin struck the boy again. He tried to pull away, but she held him fast.

Isolde stared at him hard and said, robotically, "Without discipline there is chaos."

"What?" Hank gasped, not sure he believed what he was hearing. "That's no reason to beat someone within an inch of their life! He's just a kid, for God's sake! What could he have done to deserve this?"

"It matters little what he did," Isolde responded, numbed to the fact that Korl had stopped yelling out in pained protest and now lay motionless. The swift kicks, however, still came. "Rubin protects us. If we disobey him, we must be punished."

The Ranger stared at the boy as he received his so-called punishment. Feelings of desperation ate through him. How could he just stand by and watch? How could he justify doing nothing? But then again, would making a move on Rubin blow his cover? He would never get to the bottom of whatever it was he was supposed to do if he made Rubin suspicious by interfering. Hank clenched his fists tightly and stood as a tortured spectator beside Isolde. He was convinced that the knuckles of his left hand had begun to bleed again from his intense grip.

Rubin finally paused and rolled the boy onto his back with his foot. He got down on one knee beside Korl. The youth was now a mess of blood and bruises. He emitted an agonized whimper.

"Remember this, boy," Rubin whispered cruelly, "and do not disobey me again." He grabbed Korl by the collar and raised a balled fist above his face.

This time Isolde could not hold Hank back. Unable to watch any more, he leapt forward and gripped Rubin's arm as the man strained to bring his fist down upon the wounded young man.

"That's enough," the Ranger spat, powerless to hold in his anger.

Rubin glared up at Hank and sneered as he rose to his feet. "No stomach for discipline, boy?" he asked with some hostile amusement. "You are new here, so I shall overlook your insolence this once. But it is time that you learned how I handle disobedience." He took a few steps past Hank and the crowd of youngsters parted to let him pass. When he was just beyond them, he stopped and turned.

"Bring him," he said to Hank, "and follow me."

Hank gently lifted the motionless and only semi-conscious Korl off the floor, supporting him with his shoulder. He half-carried, half-dragged the boy as he followed Rubin farther into the cavern. Hank could feel the floor descending and he knew they were headed deeper underground.

Rubin led him to a heavy wooden door where he was instructed to put Korl down. "This is the Ice Chamber, boy," the Assassin explained. He lifted the wooden barricade and pulled the door open. Hank immediately felt an intense cold rush out of the room. It was so much at first that it took his breath away. After the initial shock of the chill subsided, he was able to breathe again – hot breath that came out in thick frosted clouds.

Rubin stepped away from the door. "Bring him inside," he instructed, gesturing with an open palm toward the frigid room. Hank stood rooted to the spot. He squinted at Rubin as though he hadn't heard him right.

"Come, _brother_," Rubin ordered, twisting the word into a snarl. "An important task faces you tomorrow. You wished to join our Sect. Would you now betray our traditions? I told you that without discipline there is chaos. To be a member of our brotherhood, you must not only believe that, but you must also be willing to act upon it." Rubin's eyes blazed again as he stared Hank down. "Now, _bring - him - inside_!"

Hank whispered a prayer of forgiveness to anyone or anything that could give it for what he was being forced to do. To Korl, to Isolde, and especially to his friends. God forbid they ever learn of the part he was playing in the torture this boy had to endure. He lifted Korl carefully off the ground again and placed him on a waiting bench just inside the room. For a moment, Hank stood there beside him. Then he removed his outer tunic. He draped the heavy leather over the boy, hoping it would help to ease the cold. Afterward, Hank turned and left the Ice Chamber.

"How long does he have to stay there?" he asked, too sickened to even look at Rubin.

"You may fetch him in an hour," the Assassin replied with satisfaction. "You have done well, my boy."

Hank wanted no part of that praise. "So what's tomorrow?" he asked. He kept his back to Rubin.

"Tomorrow you shall accompany Isolde to complete her revenge," Rubin answered. "It will be your first true test as an assassin. Succeed in helping her kill Lloros, and your position in the Choros Sect will be secured. We shall all reap the rewards once Xanaton falls. Prepare yourself well tonight, Hank."

The Ranger did not reply as he walked away from the Ice Chamber. He heard Rubin close the heavy door and bolt it shut. Hank began a tortured count of the minutes until he could return to let Korl out.

* * *

Nearly an hour later, Hank sat in his room again. His chin rested on his tightly clasped hands. The hour could not have dragged by any slower, but it must have seemed like an eternity to Korl. The Ranger winced in shame at what he had done simply to keep Rubin from getting suspicious of him. 

"You will adjust to our ways," a voice said softly from the door. Hank had neglected to close it, and Isolde had watched him silently for several minutes before speaking. He turned his head and held her eyes. She seemed to take his prolonged stare as an invitation and she moved inside the room. She sat upon the bed so she could face Hank. "It just takes some time."

"Tell me you don't mean that," he replied blankly. This girl, the "lost soul," whom he was supposed to protect, couldn't possibly be that hard-hearted.

Isolde shrugged and Hank looked away from her to stare at the floor.

"We have all faced the Ice Chamber at some point," she explained. "You will, too, eventually. Sooner, no doubt, if you do not learn to trust Rubin's judgment," she added as a cautionary afterthought.

"It's barbaric," Hank muttered with a shake of his head.

"It is not as bad as you imagine," Isolde replied. "It is simply a part of life here. And the Chamber is not, as you might think, merely a form of punishment. It is a source of life as well. The underground glacier provides our drinking water, in addition to an effective means of disciplining insubordinates."

Hank lifted his face to look at the girl across from him. Imagining her enduring an hour in that freezing room sent a reflexive chill down his spine. He held her eyes for several moments, causing Isolde to begin fidgeting again beneath the scrutiny of his gaze. She looked away and focused on her fingers, which toyed with each other uneasily in her lap. Unconsciously, she raised one hand to push a tendril of long hair back behind her ear.

"You don't have a problem with what that guy did?" Hank asked. He spoke softly, trying to appeal to this new gentle nature that Isolde had only recently revealed to him.

Abruptly, Isolde's expression hardened. The demure girlishness melted away at his words, only to be replaced by the stern countenance that Hank had first met. She stood up abruptly. "Whether I like it or not does not matter," she lectured angrily. "You had best not speak ill of Rubin, Hank. He saved my life ten years ago, and I owe him my obedience and fealty." She strode to the door and stopped before exiting. But she did not turn to face Hank again.

"Get some rest," she said, considering the previous matter closed. "We leave tomorrow morning at dawn. You'd best hurry down for Korl before you go to sleep." With that, she left the room and disappeared down the hall.

Hank couldn't shake the feeling of foreboding about tomorrow's quest. He had seen Rubin become a madman before his eyes. He thought back to the previous hour. Looking into Rubin's face, Hank could have sworn that the Assassin had received some kind of perverse amusement from watching the Ranger struggle to hold himself back from rescuing Korl from his beating . . . and even more so from ordering Hank to place the boy in the Ice Chamber.

Hank had not trusted Rubin to begin with, but after tonight's horrific display of absolute power, he couldn't help but think that something terrible was going to happen tomorrow. If this was the man to whom Isolde swore loyalty, Hank would need to keep a closer watch on her.

He rose off his chair so that he might make his way back to the Ice Chamber to retrieve Korl. As he stood, his hand went to his waist, where he kept his small supply pouch. Usually, it was under his outer tunic, but since he had given that to Korl to keep the boy warm, Hank finally noticed it. An idea struck him.

As he left the room, he grabbed the water-skin that hung by his bedside. Then Hank quickly made his way to the Ice Chamber.

To be continued . . .


	5. Heroes for Ghosts

**Disclaimer:** All standard disclaimers apply. Don't own the series, but I do own the story. Hope it's enjoyed!

**Rating:** PG-13 for violent situations and mild language

**Author's Notes:** Although I've had this chapter written for some time, I've found that the editing process has caused it to take a very different turn than I'd originally intended. (Thanks, EQ, for the help and advice.) Of course, this means the rest of the story will be a little different than I intended as well – though, hopefully, for the better.

Bring a hankie . . . my original warnings from Part One still apply. I hope you enjoy.

* * *

**_Through a Mirror Darkly _**

_by N.L. Rummi_

_There may come a time  
__When I will lose you;  
__Lose you as I lose my light  
__Days falling backward into velvet night_

_Paul Simon_

* * *

_**Chapter Four - Heroes for Ghosts**_

"Hank's been here all right," Presto said as he stooped to examine the forest shrubbery. The Young Ones had been determined to find the Choros Sect the night before, but were forced to stop when it became too dark to see the trail that Hank had left. When dawn broke, they were able to resume their search. "It's a good thing Hank thought to singe the bushes every couple feet with his arrow."

_I only hope we're not too late_, Sheila wanted to say, but couldn't bring herself to utter the words aloud. "I wonder how much farther," she said instead.

"All I know is we better find this place soon," Eric characteristically griped. "Otherwise I'm gonna be one cranky Ca— Yaaahh!"

The others turned quickly at Eric's cry to see several dark figures advancing on them from behind.

"I guess it wasn't much farther after all!" Bobby exclaimed, raising his club. He took a swing at the nearest assassin, who jumped back to avoid it.

"_Abra-la-crackin'! Send these creeps packin'_!" Presto commanded his hat. It manifested a hail of objects that caused the attackers to flounder away from him. Presto blinked as several assailants tumbled to the ground, tangled in a mass of flying garments, while others were pelted by what looked like old luggage. The Magician grinned at his hat's strange sense of literal humor and placed it back on his head.

Sheila squelched the advances of two assassins by using the oldest trick in the book: She vanished out from between them just in time for them to ram right into each other. As she reappeared beside Bobby, the boy began to laugh.

"At least we know the Orcs aren't the only ones dumb enough to fall for that!" he said. His sister also giggled.

Diana took a swing at one dark, cloaked figure. Sweeping her staff in a wide arc, she caught him in the back and sent him sprawling on the ground. He got up and ran for the deeper part of the woods. "We've got them on the run, guys!" Diana shouted back to the others with a confident grin.

The Acrobat's smile turned into a surprised grunt as she was suddenly struck from behind and tackled to the ground. A pair of arms pinned hers to her sides. As she was forcefully raised up again, she felt the cold sensation of a blade at her throat. Her eyes frantically scanned the scene surrounding her, and she noticed that her friends had run into similar trouble:

Eric, warding off an attack from the front, had also been seized by two from behind.

Presto had been brought down by a weighted bola thrown by one of the assassins. It was now tangled around his legs. His hat had landed on the ground, beyond his reach.

Bobby's club had been yanked from his grip as he drew it back to take a swing at the attackers in front of him. When he spun around to face the assassin, he found himself being threatened by his own weapon. Uni cowered at his side.

Sheila was cornered against a tall rock by four cloaked figures.

It was clear to Diana that the first group of attackers had been a distraction. She squirmed, and her eyes settled on the Thief. "Sheila!" she yelled, "Quick! Get out of here!"

Sheila locked eyes with Diana, then turned back to her assailants. "GO!" Diana shouted again. As the assassins drew in closer, Sheila gripped the hood of her cloak, pulled it up over her head, and vanished without a trace.

Diana breathed a sigh of partial relief. Then she felt the blade press closer to her neck. She gingerly turned her head as much as she could to get a look at her captor. The Acrobat found herself staring into eyes that were even younger than her own. _He's just a kid! They . . . they're all children!_

"Take them to Rubin!" Diana's attacker's voice shouted beside her ear, causing her to wince. As the four Young Ones were led away, Diana hoped that Sheila would be all right.

* * *

Hank and Isolde walked in silence toward Xanaton. The light of the first sun had begun to brighten the beautiful landscape, but the Ranger still had a very uneasy feeling about today. He kept thinking about what Dungeon Master said: That the "lost soul" must be saved or many lives would be lost; That Isolde needed his protection even though she did not know it; That, in his heart, he knew who could be trusted and who couldn't.

He was also wary of the fact that Rubin had sent him alone with Isolde. If the Sect leader didn't trust him – as the Ranger was certain he did not – why would he allow Hank the opportunity to stop Isolde from following through with her revenge? Hank didn't like this.

In addition, he was worried about the others. He hadn't seen or heard from them in two days. He had half-expected to see them long before now – especially after he had left that trail for them to follow to the Sect. His stomach turned as he wondered if Sheila had made it safely into Xanaton. Was she still there? Did she manage to get to Lloros? Was she okay?

He shook his head. _Get a grip, Ranger_, he thought to himself. _You can only focus on one thing at a time_. And Isolde was here right now. Hank decided that he couldn't help her if he couldn't talk to her. "Listen," he said finally, "I'm sorry if I said something wrong last night. I guess I'm just not used to . . . "

"We must be silent," Isolde cut him off, crouching behind a cluster of bushes.

"Sorry," Hank whispered. "I'm not up on my assassination protocol. Guess I should have studied the handbook, huh?"

Isolde may not have gotten his joke, but she did smile a little. At the very least, Hank had succeeded in breaking the façade of anger she had been wearing since last night. In fact, her entire appearance had seemed more severe this morning: her hair was no longer draped upon her shoulders, as it had been last evening, but pulled back into a tight knot, the way it had been when Hank had first met her. Everything about her was hard and functional again. She had lost some of that shy innocence she had allowed to surface last night in Hank's chamber, and he regretted making her angry by revealing his hostility toward Rubin. Perhaps if he hadn't, it would have been easier to get through to her now.

"I suppose we are still far enough away from Xanaton that silence wouldn't matter," Isolde reconsidered. "I am surprised that you are doing this, Hank," she added as she settled herself upon the ground, an action which the Ranger took as a signal to rest. He did the same. "As I said last night, it didn't seem to be in your blood. I am grateful that you do understand my need to do this."

Hank didn't say anything. Now that he had her speaking, he couldn't think of the right words to use to talk her out of this madness.

"Another thing surprises me as well," Isolde continued. "Rubin always insists upon coming along for the kill. I am surprised that he did not join us this time. He was with me before, in Xanaton. He must truly trust you, after all." She offered Hank a faint smile. "You should be honored."

"He _always_ goes?" Hank questioned. _That other cloaked figure in Xanaton's square was him?_

"Yes, always," Isolde nodded. "As I said, he insists upon it – to protect us. And he never raises his weapon to kill. He promises to leave the glory of our revenge for us alone."

Hank looked around. If Rubin always came along during an assassination, why wasn't he here now? The Ranger was still shooting suspicious glances at their surroundings when Isolde rose to her feet to continue. Hank quickly jumped up as well.

"I don't know about this 'glory in revenge' thing, Isolde," he said. Hank decided that if he didn't say something soon, he might lose his chance. "All it does is put you on the same level as the people who hurt you. You'd be no better than they are. Believe me; that was a lesson I learned the hard way." The Ranger thought back to the time he had come a breath away from destroying Venger in the Dragon's Graveyard. "If you go through with this . . . "

"I told you my reasons!" Isolde hissed, her back to him. "Lloros and his people will _pay_ for destroying my life. I swore it on my father's grave."

"But, Isolde . . . " Without thinking, Hank placed a firm hand on her shoulder. The instant he touched her, the girl spun around, gripped his collar tightly, and pulled him into a deep kiss.

For a dizzying moment, Hank sensed her mouth pressing heavily to his, and could practically taste the desperation that linked them together on the saltiness of her lips. Her fingers released the collar of his tunic and began to thread themselves into his hair, pulling him roughly down to her. After the way she had whirled on him, it took Hank a moment to realize that she was not attacking him. As soon as he grasped what she was actually doing, he raised his hands to her wrists and eased her away from him, breaking contact.

Hank knew from the beginning that he had somehow felt drawn to this girl. But to help her, not to love her. She had an exotic prettiness to her, true, but nothing about this was right. "I'm sorry," he breathed. "I . . . I can't do that."

Isolde stared wide-eyed up at him for an eternal moment. Then her brows knitted together in a deep scowl and her eyes flashed with the fury that the Ranger had first seen in them.

"Why not? You understand me, don't you, Hank? You told Rubin that we shared a similar past!" She yanked her wrists free of his grip and stared at him in betrayed confusion.

Hank couldn't process any words, not even the ones he had been carefully choosing a few moments earlier. He hadn't expected this turn, and he had a terrible feeling that he had just made matters a lot worse. Hank stood mute before the raging girl.

"We have both endured such wrongdoing!" Isolde continued, her voice rising to a more frantic pitch. "Me from Lloros, and you from the Dungeon Master!" She didn't seem to care if anyone heard her now. "Think of it, Hank. We could be unstoppable! We could right all the wrongs done throughout the Realm. Together!"

"You think that committing murder in the name of justice is righting a wrong?" Hank asked, finally finding his voice. "I don't. You're better than that, Isolde. You don't have to kill anyone. Please, let me help you. My friends and I . . . "

Hank's words trailed off as the girl took a step back away from him, an even more intense fury burning in her dark eyes. "That's _it_, isn't it?" she growled. "I knew there had to be another reason you did not want me!"

"Isolde," Hank pleaded. He felt his stomach clench.

"It's that _girl_! Isn't it, Hank? That fire-headed wench!" Isolde was trembling with rage.

"Isolde, please," Hank said. He attempted to make his tone sound soothing. He stepped toward her, and tried to place his hand on her shoulder again.

In an instant, Isolde's blade was to the Ranger's throat. He withdrew his hand and looked alarmingly into her face. The Assassin, however, would not be dissuaded. Her eyes, framed by long charcoal lashes, continued to burn as her feelings of betrayal festered.

"You know what I am," she said, her voice a deep growl. "You know what I am capable of. I could _kill_ her, Hank. I could slit her throat. If she was gone, then perhaps you would want me."

Hank flinched as the tip of the girl's knife pressed closer to his neck. He had to reason with her. "You wouldn't do that, Isolde," he insisted. "You were right when you said I understood you. I do. I can see good in you. You're not a killer."

Isolde brought her face very close to Hank's ear. "After today I will be, dearest," she whispered in a dark voice; a voice meant to punish.

Hank felt the wind get knocked out of him as the girl's knee jerked swiftly upward into his stomach. He doubled over, trying unsuccessfully to suck air into his violently protesting lungs. His brain had no time to register anything before the hilt of Isolde's blade struck the back of his head.

Then, everything went black.

* * *

"Hey! Ease off, you bully!"

Bobby scowled as the tip of the assassin's blade poked between his shoulders. He glanced with concern to where another was dragging Uni behind him with a tether. The only part of the Barbarian's brain that wasn't smoldering with anger was the part that was thinking about his sister. He was at least grateful that she had gotten away . . . even though he didn't know where she was.

"Where are you taking us?" Eric demanded of the young assassin behind him.

"To someone with more power than you'll ever know, fool," came a snarl from the boy.

"Who? Rubin? Are you kidding?" Eric snorted, ignoring Diana's _Eric-Keep-Your-Big-Mouth-Shut_ expression. "This Rubin bozo would be shaking in his shoes if he knew who _my_ father— Ooof!" The Cavalier's words were abruptly cut off. The next place he found himself was face-down in the dirt.

"Silence, worm!" the assassin commanded. Eric only managed to spit out a mouthful of earth in response. The youth who hovered over him laughed cruelly, but it was abruptly cut off by a sudden chaos that erupted all around them.

A new band of combatants had emerged from the trees beyond the path and had forced the assassins to scatter and regroup. _God! What now?_ Eric thought as he covered his head with his hands and remained prostrate on the ground. _Bullywogs? Lizard Men? Two-headed, ten armed, blood-sucking mutant monsters?_

Eric wailed as someone grabbed the scruff of his cape and hoisted him to his feet. In the absence of his shield, he crossed his arms defensively in front of his face. It was a moment before he dared to peek at the person in front of him. When he did, he blinked in surprise. "Golon?"

"Shake a leg, Cavalier!" Diana called as she ran past, heaving him his weapon that she had somehow managed to retrieve. "Reinforcements are here!"

After catching his shield, Eric watched as dozens of the townsmen of Xanaton descended upon the assassins who had captured the Young Ones and began pushing them back. He retreated a few paces to stand beside Presto. The Magician was trying to pull something useful out of his hat.

"Remind me to ask you later what the heck just happened here!" Eric bellowed to Presto as the young assassins dispersed and fled into the trees.

"Lloros convinced them to come help us!" Bobby shouted as he joined them.

"Yeah, but how'd they find us?" Presto replied as he pulled a bullhorn out of his hat. Not knowing what else to do with it, he jammed one finger into his ear and fired a retreat blast after the assassins as they escaped back into the darkness of the woods.

"Who cares!" hollered Bobby impatiently. "We have to find Hank and Sheila!" The Barbarian spun around abruptly at the sound of a grunt behind him. He raised his club and glanced down to the ground, where an attacking assassin had landed. The youth made a clumsy crab-walk backwards away from Bobby, then he turned over and staggered to his feet at a run. He, like most of his comrades, also disappeared into the trees. Bobby cracked a smile as he looked around for who had saved him.

"You can stop worrying about one of us, at least," a disembodied voice said from beside the boy. Bobby grinned happily as Sheila removed her hood. The girl bent down and hugged her brother affectionately. "I'm so glad you're all right," she said. "I hurried back as fast as I could."

"Aw, Sis!" Bobby grumbled as she gushed over him, but didn't make a move to push her away.

"Sheila!" Diana cried as she joined the rest of the Young Ones, shrinking her javelin down slightly. "You found us!"

"Who do you think led Golon here?" the Thief replied with a smile.

The Young Ones were distracted from their reunion by the sudden sounds of a struggle a short distance away.

"Talk, Choros whelp!"

They turned to see Golon lifting one of the assassins – who had not escaped with the others – up against a tree. They quickly gathered behind him.

"Where is the one who leads you?" Golon growled. "Where is the girl Isolde?"

The assassin boy sneered weakly, dangling by his collar from Golon's large grip. "You are too late," he managed to grunt. "They have journeyed on ahead to Xanaton. By the time you return there, it will be too late for your beloved mage."

Golon drew his fist back.

"No!" Diana said, gripping the sleeve of the man's shirt. "We can't waste any time. We have to get back to the city. Hank will be trying to stop them, and he can't hold them off by himself for long."

Golon hesitated. He took one final heated glare at the boy in his grip – a boy who was far too young to know of such malice – then he allowed the youth to drop to the ground. The assassin staggered into the thick copse of trees.

The Young Ones turned and swiftly began to make their way back toward the city. "Diana!" Eric called to the Acrobat as they ran. "How do you know Hank's gonna be there?"

"I know he is, Eric," she answered. "He has to be."

* * *

Lloros watched the woods beyond Xanaton. He had been insistent in sending his people to aid the Young Ones in their search for the Choros Sect. There was something about those children – something honest, something virtuous, something pure of heart – that made him believe their story.

After all, the man was, first and above all else, a father – a father who had just been granted hope in the impossible: that his lost child was _not_ gone forever.

In the course of one evening, five young souls had made his spirit live again for the first time in a decade. Or was it six? The one named Sheila had said she had another friend who was with Isolde right now. Bless that lad if he was able to bring her home.

Golon had called Lloros trusting; blinded by hope; too eager to trust what may be a trick. But Lloros preferred to be blinded by hope than mired in the despair that had been his life for the past ten years. And if it _was_ a trick . . . if he was to perish because of his faith in the possibility of a miracle . . . then so be it. Either way, at least he would be with his Isolde again.

Yes, Lloros was a father above all. Therefore, it was rather impulsively that he had instructed his people to seek out and assist the Young Ones. A short time later, it was that same impulsion that brought him to the high ridge, outside the protection of the city, to await their return.

After several minutes of gazing in the direction of the forest beyond the gorge below, Lloros turned to walk back down the ridge. He did not wish to return to the city, but he did feel the impatient need to pace.

His ears caught the sound of a rustle of leaves behind him, and he turned slowly. Lloros suddenly felt as though he was no longer alone, but he knew his people could not have returned yet; he would have seen their approach from the lookout point upon the ridge. He glanced down at the shrubbery on his right and saw nothing. When his eyes shifted back to the trail, a dark hooded figure was standing there.

Lloros was startled, but only for a moment. "So," he said wearily. "It has come to this. After all my years of searching you have finally come to me."

The glint of a dagger flashed in the morning sun as the cloaked figure slowly procured it from beneath the dark garments.

"You unholy monster," Lloros said. His voice was still quiet, more pitying than hostile. "I will not give you the satisfaction of chasing me down. You want me? Here I am. But answer me one thing."

The figure cocked its cloaked head to the side.

"Did she suffer?" Lloros asked, his steady tone wavering slightly.

"Suffer?" said a woman's voice from beneath the hood. "You _dare_ question me about suffering after what you and your people did to me?"

Lloros' eyes narrowed in confusion. "You are not Rubin," he said.

In a flash, the figure charged Lloros. The mage could hear the whizzing sound of a blade slicing the air . . . slicing cloth . . . and then flesh. A white-hot fire seared across his shoulder and he cried out. A second attack swiftly came from behind, slashing through his leg, and the man sank to his knees. Lloros glared upward. He gripped his torn shoulder as the cloaked figure appeared in front of him again, displaying the stained dagger. The suns were now reflecting off the gleam of Lloros' own blood on the blade.

"No," the woman's voice spoke again. "I am not Rubin." She raised her other arm and removed the hood of her cape. "But I _am_ death. Yours."

Lloros grew horrified as he found himself staring into his own eyes. The eyes of this girl were the same as his own – but hers seemed to burn with a dark hatred. Lloros had wanted so much to believe what Sheila had said. Every fiber of his being prayed for it to be true. Even when Golon had told him that it couldn't possibly be, he had still hoped.

There was no mistaking it now. This girl. She was . . .

"_Isolde_." The word left Lloros' lips like a prayer.

The girl flashed a cruel but amused smile. "You remember me, I see."

"My child," Lloros said through tears he couldn't hold back, "your face has entered my dreams every night for these past ten years."

"I am glad to hear you at least feel some repentance for those you scourge and leave for dead." Isolde took a step toward him. She hesitated as her eyes met his.

What evil trick was this? His eyes were like hers. _Like Papa's!_ Isolde gripped her dagger even tighter. How dare he? How _dare_ he use her father's beautiful eyes against her! This ended now. She raised the blade and took another step.

"My sweet, sweet Isolde," Lloros wept. "What has that monster done to you?"

"Poor, poor Lloros," came another voice – a dark, unctuous voice – from behind Isolde. The mage reluctantly tore his eyes away from his daughter to see Rubin suddenly standing there.

"Rubin!" Isolde exclaimed. Her face was awash with obvious relief. "I thought you were not coming!"

"I wouldn't miss this, my dear." The Assassin's voice remained a deep monotone as he took a few steps toward her from behind.

"What have you _done_ to her, you vile monstrosity?" Lloros demanded. His sorrow had turned into unabashed fury.

"Ah, Lloros, my old enemy," Rubin sighed. "You seem to have lost something." He looked from Lloros to the girl and grinned. "Think of it: To have waited and suffered this long, dreaming of the one thing your pitiful magic could never bring back." He stood alongside Isolde and tilted his head appreciatively at Lloros, who was still on his knees. "And now you shall meet your death at her hands. My revenge will soon be complete."

Isolde's blade, which had been held firm and steady in the mage's direction, began to waver slightly. "Rubin?" she said. Her eyes narrowed in confusion. "I do not understand. Lloros' demise is _my_ revenge."

"And you have done your part," Rubin stated matter-of-factly. "But now I shall take my _own_ revenge."

"What?" the girl asked. "What do you mean?" She tried to divide her attention between the man behind her and the victim at her feet.

"My dear girl, you are so precious – so naïve," Rubin replied soothingly. He reached his hand out to stroke her hair. "It seems almost a shame that I must destroy you now."

The Assassin's hand seized Isolde's throat and pulled her back against him. She dropped her dagger and let out a strangled scream. The flash of Rubin's sword gleamed in the morning suns as he pressed the drawn blade firmly against her neck. Isolde struggled to turn her head and look upon his face, which was now alongside hers. Her eyes were filled with a wild, confused panic.

"Rubin!" she shuddered. "W-what are you doing?"

"Completing my vengeance," he sneered wickedly into her ear, "with your help, dear girl."

"Rubin—" she started to protest, but was silenced as his sword pressed further into her throat.

Lloros began to raise his hand, bloodied from gripping his torn shoulder. It was aglow with an intense light.

"Cease your pitiful magic, _water_ mage," Rubin ordered with a contemptuous sneer. "Yours is no match for the One who commands me. Of course, if you wish her dead . . . "

Lloros lowered his hand and the glowing died. "Please," he begged, "if you wish revenge upon me, take it. But, please, spare her."

Isolde eyed her hated enemy in tear-filled confusion. Why? Why was Lloros pleading for her life? And why had Rubin, the one man she trusted – the man who had saved her ten years ago – suddenly gone mad?

"You seem bewildered, Isolde dear," Rubin whispered to her. "You wished for the perfect revenge. Here it is: What better revenge upon Lloros than to have him stricken by the hand of his own daughter?"

"You _lie_!" Isolde's voice cracked in a shuddering murmur. "The scars! That was _him_! He _murdered_ my father!"

Isolde could feel Rubin's rumbling laughter against her back as he pulled her tightly against him. The sword was still biting into the base of her throat. Rubin dragged one thumb across her cheek.

"Yes," he agreed, though his words were directed at Lloros. "Your daughter was a brave girl – difficult to break down. It took several lashings and numerous trips to the Ice Chamber before she broke into submission. When she ultimately believed that it was _you_ who tortured her, Lloros, . . . well, that was a victorious day for me! Even though I was still in the exile you had forced upon me, I began to see hope that revenge would one day be mine."

Tears streamed down Isolde's cheeks. "You lied to me," she breathed in a small voice. "My father . . . lives?" Her stomach turned as Rubin laughed and caressed her cheek again.

"You bastard!" Lloros spat hatefully. "Leave her be! You have tortured her enough! If it is revenge upon me that you want, come and take it; I will not stop you. But _let - her - go!_"

Rubin sneered at the man – gaunt and broken through years of despair, now further tormented through anguish and anger. "Isolde," he said to the girl, "you often wondered why I insisted upon being present at each kill." He could feel the violent sobs that now wracked Isolde's body as she trembled against his chest. "This. This is why: The revenge was never yours. It was _mine_. As it is for _all_ my Sect's children. And I shall have it now." He smiled. "Farewell, my dear."

"What are you doing?" demanded Lloros. He attempted to stand, but his damaged leg would not permit it.

"Taking my perfect revenge," Rubin replied. "After all these years, you thought your beloved daughter to be dead. I would wager that seeing her again, whether she despised you or not, is like a dream, isn't it, old man? What could be worse than finally finding your Isolde . . . only to lose her again?" Rubin's eyes flashed with gleeful malice. "Say goodbye, _Lloros_." He twisted the broken mage's name with a snarl and brought his sword up fully into striking position.

"_Papa!_" Isolde reflexively screamed as the teeth of Rubin's jagged sword bit into her throat.

"_Get away from her, Rubin!_"

Rubin stopped and grinned as though he had expected this. "Isolde, I'm disappointed with you," he said in an amused taunt. "After all my tutelage on how to handle those who betray us . . . you left him _alive_?" He turned around slowly. A sinister smile spread across his lips as he faced a golden flaming arrow and equally burning blue eyes.

"_Now_, Rubin!" Hank ordered again. "_Let her go!_"

"Just as I thought," Rubin sneered. "No stomach for what must be done. Welcome, Hank." The man grinned calmly.

For the second time in his life, Hank the Ranger felt the vehement urge to discharge his weapon straight into the heart of his enemy. And after what he had just heard, he would have felt justified in doing so. He stood utterly still and steady, his aim unwavering. It would be so easy to end this – to make it so this monster would never harm another child for the profit of his own revenge. _His own cowardly revenge_, Hank fumed. What he did to that girl – to her father – to her life – was inhuman.

But that was all Rubin was: a coward. And this wasn't Hank's revenge. Although he may have played the part, he was not an assassin. As Hank had told Isolde: murder in the name of vigilante justice was still murder. He wouldn't kill for his own satisfaction. He didn't do it to Venger; he wouldn't do it to this pitiful excuse for a human being – not unless he was forced to. Rubin's fate was best left up to those he had wronged: Isolde, Lloros, the people of Xanaton.

However, if Rubin thought that Hank wouldn't put up a fight, he was sorely mistaken. The Ranger steeled himself, his arrow leveled at the Assassin. He retracted his right arm even further and stared down its burning shaft, to where Rubin held Isolde like a shield in front of him. The girl's face was stained with tears – both from fear and from shame. There was a thin bloodied track along the base of her throat where the sword was still pressed.

"I'm warning you, Rubin," Hank demanded. "Let her go, now!"

"With pleasure," the Assassin growled. He suddenly cast Isolde away and leapt at the Ranger with his sword raised high. Hank discharged his arrow, but missed. His attention had been momentarily diverted: Isolde had tumbled several feet down the hillside and struck her head upon a rock. She lay motionless several yards away from her father, who cried out and attempted to drag himself to her. A second later, the Ranger's focus was back on his attacker. The swinging sword drove him back – higher up the slope of the ridge.

Hank took advantage of the extra few feet he now had between himself and the Assassin. He raised his bow again. Rubin gripped the stealth cloak that he was wearing and wrapped it tightly around himself. Hank's eyes darted left and right as he struggled to keep the camouflaged man in his sights. He remembered how Isolde had moved the first time he had encountered her. Although she wasn't invisible like Sheila, her semi-shrouded movements had seemed swifter, more unnoticeable. Hank tried desperately to concentrate on following Rubin with both his eyes and his weapon. He couldn't. He lost him.

"_Hank!_ Behind you!"

The Ranger spun around at the warning just in time to avoid another thrust that came at him. Rubin had thrown his entire body into the attack. He flew past Hank and landed at his feet. Hank took the brief moment of reprieve to glance in the direction of the familiar voice that had warned him.

_Sheila._

Sheila, Diana, and Eric to be exact. The three came running up the steep incline that led to the top of the ridge. Presto and Bobby had gone on ahead to Xanaton with Golon. In case there were more assassins attacking the city, the people there would need protecting.

Hank beamed at the sight of his friends again. It was short-lived, however. Rubin had quickly climbed to his feet once more. "Guys!" Hank shouted as he readied himself for another attack. "Get them back to the city!"

The three ran to where Lloros lay. He was very groggy, but he was still trying to reach his unconscious daughter.

"He's lost a lot of blood," Diana said. She bent down and wrapped one of his arms around her shoulders. "We'll both have to carry him."

Eric seized his other side, being mindful of the man's wounded shoulder. The two lifted the flaccid mage to his feet.

Lloros suddenly stiffened and began to protest. "No! Isolde! Save her! I beg you!"

Sheila turned to look farther up the hill, to where the girl was lying. "I'll get her!" she called to the others as she ran from them.

Eric and Diana made their way toward the city gates as fast as they could, carrying Lloros between them. It didn't take them long to reach the entrance of Xanaton. Eric turned his head back to the ridge, where they had left their two friends behind. "I think Hank's gonna need some more help!" he said to Diana.

"Presto!" Eric shouted as the three neared the drawbridge, hoping the Magician was within earshot. "Presto, c'mere and take this guy! I'm going back for Hank and Sheila!"

Presto and Golon came racing onto the bridge. Golon made a beeline for Eric's side. "I have him, my friend," the man said as he lifted Lloros from Eric's shoulder. "Go and help your comrades."

Eric took a moment to give a nod in Golon's direction. This was the first time the man had acknowledged the fact that the Young Ones were actually there to help. It was certainly the first time he had referred to them as "friends." Eric, however, didn't dwell on any warm-fuzzies at the moment. He turned and ran back in the direction of the ridge.

"Be careful, Eric!" Diana called after him as she helped Golon carry Lloros safely into the city.

"You know me!" he called back. "Eric the Head-Case Cavalier! Stupid as ever!"

* * *

Sheila reached the prone Isolde and struggled to turn the girl over. There was a large gash in her forehead and the Thief wondered if moving her was even a good idea. Maybe she should help Hank first. Then he could help her to . . .

A vicious roar from Rubin caught Sheila's attention, and her head snapped up involuntarily. She looked toward the top of the ridge.

Hank barely managed to parry the blow that came at him. He raised his arms and blocked it with his bow. Since entering the Realm, this was probably the first battle Hank had fought that was entirely hand-to-hand. Rubin clearly had more experience in this area. He hadn't allowed Hank to get the distance he was used to – the distance he needed to use his bow effectively. While Hank's weapon was arguably one of the strongest Weapons of Power, it was not supposed to be used in this way. Hank found himself wishing for Eric's shield as Rubin struck again.

The Assassin's jagged sword clashed with the golden bow and became locked there – high above their heads. The two combatants were now engaged in a deadly tug-of-war. Hank didn't dare let go of the bow with his right hand to reach for the string; he was already using all his strength to keep the Assassin at bay. Neither man could afford to be the one to pull out of their deadlock. If Hank were to back up – even a few steps – he could very easily tumble over the edge of the ridge. If Rubin were to allow himself to be forced back, that would give the Ranger the space he needed to use his arrow.

The Assassin had other plans.

As their weapons remained locked overhead, Rubin took a step closer. He was so near that Hank could feel the heat of the man's rancid breath upon his face. "I wanted to thank you, boy," the Assassin grunted. Hank looked puzzled through the strain of their struggle, and Rubin grinned. "Thanks to you I shall soon be back in the good graces of my Master."

"What are you talking about," Hank managed, using all his strength to keep the weapons aloft.

"Did you think for a moment that I trusted you? _You_? One of Dungeon Master's prized pupils?" Rubin sneered evilly at the boy in front of him. "Yes, I know about you."

Hank felt his muscles tremble and he grit his teeth. He lost a few inches of ground as his feet slid slightly upon the earth.

Rubin was still smiling. "Do you recall me telling you that Dungeon Master would be the next target? A _lie_! He shall be the _first_ to suffer today. As will all those who stand against me!"

With a swift movement, the Assassin gave an abrupt shove. It threw Hank off balance long enough for Rubin's left hand to release its hold on his jagged sword and dive beneath his cloak, procuring a slender, wooden-handled dagger from its place there. Before Hank knew what was happening, the man had brought the smaller knife down between both of their bodies. Hank quickly released one of his hands from his bow and gripped Rubin's wrist, struggling to keep the second blade away from him.

Sheila leapt to her feet beside Isolde and took a few running steps up the slope. Hank glanced briefly in her direction and she froze as their eyes met. He seemed surprised to see her still there. He saw the panic in her eyes, just as she had seen the surprise in his. His arms continued to tremble and beads of sweat rolled down his temples as he struggled against both of Rubin's blades.

Rubin flashed another sneer at the young man. Then he spoke one last time. "Dungeon Master's hero falls today. Consider this a greeting from your old enemy . . . _Ranger_."

And he broke though the fist that held him, thrusting his arm forward.

Suddenly, Sheila noticed something else in Hank's eyes: They became instantly wider, full of what looked like shock, and his shoulders involuntarily lurched forward. Sheila felt her own body jerk in response to Hank's sudden movement. She could feel her stomach twist into painful knots as an icy chill ran up her back.

Everything started to move in slow motion. Rubin lowered his arm and took a casual step back. Hank remained standing on the crest of the ridge. Sheila could see that he was trembling; his hand was pressed tightly to his abdomen. When Rubin turned to smile at her, she saw it: the crimson stains on the wooden hilt of the blade in his fist. Her eyes flew to where Hank was prudently removing his hand from his stomach – exposing ruddy fingers and a widening circle of red on the front of his green leather tunic. The Ranger took a staggering step back.

_No._

Sheila barely said the word. Barely mouthed it, in fact. But her brain screamed it. It was more of an inward protest, a silent cry – splitting the silence for no one but her. She shook her head, trying to deny what she had seen. It was several moments before Sheila realized that she _had_ started screaming. The tortured cries echoed throughout her entire body.

"_HANK!_"

Rubin snarled at her one last time, then turned back to Hank. He slashed his blade swiftly through the air, causing a reflex reaction from the Ranger.

"_NO!_" Sheila screamed again in protest as Hank awkwardly jumped back to avoid the Assassin's swing. He lost his footing and disappeared over the edge of the cliff.

Sheila ran. She had to get to him. She had to save him. She had to do something.

The Thief felt herself get tackled to the ground from behind.

"Stop it! You're gonna get yourself killed, too!"

Sheila struggled against the weight of the person on top of her. Several seconds later, she was released and she scrambled to get to her knees. Strong hands seized her shoulders and gripped her firmly. One hand trailed up to her head to keep her face turned away from the crest of the ridge. "Don't look," the voice said again. Sheila recognized it.

"Don't _touch_ me, Eric!" she suddenly shrieked. "Let me _go_! I have to _do_ something!" Sheila flailed against the Cavalier until he released her. She stumbled away from him as he made a grab for her again.

"Sheila," he said quietly, "there's nothing you can do."

The Thief shot to her feet and turned. Rubin was nowhere in sight either. "Where did he go?" Sheila hissed.

Eric scrambled to his feet as well. "He probably slipped by us with that stealth cloak of his," he said as he reached again for Sheila. He looked around. "Isolde's gone, too. He must have taken her." Eric's hand found his friend's arm, but she yanked it away.

"I said keep your hands off me!" she warned. "I . . . I . . . " Sheila began to tremble. She turned and clambered to the edge of the cliff. Her heart leapt as she looked down. He would be there; she knew it. He would have fired an arrow to use as a climbing rope. Then she and Eric would bring him to the healers in Xanaton. Hank would be fine. He always managed to make everything all right.

She looked.

Nothing. There was nothing there. Not even a bottom to the chasm below. Nothing.

Sheila's mind wouldn't accept it. She stooped down to take a closer look. Her fingers touched something wet in the grass. As she looked at them, she came to the horrifying realization that things were not going to be all right . . . probably not ever again.

Eric took her hand and stood her up. "We should go," he said hoarsely. Sheila could hear an odd quaver in his voice.

She pulled her hand free of Eric's grip and stared at him hotly. The Thief felt an intense fire burning in her face, but to look at her, she was blanched and ghostly pale. Her tortured mind couldn't tell if it was grief-stricken, enraged, or just numb. Her eyes welled up as she looked at Eric.

Then she raised the hood of her cloak and vanished.

"Sheila!" the Cavalier hollered. "_Sheila!_" He spun around and looked in all directions, but he already knew it wouldn't do any good.

As it became apparent that Sheila wasn't coming back, Eric hung his head. His eyes found his own gauntlet. The hand he had used to pull Sheila to her feet was now faintly spotted with red stains. Eric shuddered and clenched his fist tightly. He stood alone on the high ridge, his shoulders beginning to shake with sobs.

* * *

"Where have you been?" Presto exclaimed as Eric entered Lloros' house. The Cavalier didn't answer. He didn't know how.

"Hey there, mister savior!" Diana said as she descended the stairs from the upper room. "Lloros is with the healers and he can't wait to see—"

The Acrobat froze as she saw Eric's grave expression. She had never seen him look that way before. She also noticed that he was alone. Diana came down the stairs more quickly and hurried over to him. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Where are the others?" She looked past him, to see if anyone else was emerging through the open doorway, but there was no one there.

"Rubin took Isolde back," Eric reported as though in a daze. "Sheila disappeared – literally . . . " He tried to swallow the lump in his throat before attempting to continue. He couldn't.

"Hank . . . " Eric's voice trailed off as he stared downward at his gauntlet. He tried to cover it up by suddenly running his hand through his hair, but Diana reached forward and caught his wrist. She inspected the spot where the Cavalier had been staring. Her breath caught in her throat as she noticed the pale ruddy stains on his palm. When she looked back up, the tears forming in Eric's eyes told her everything.

_Oh, my God._

"No!" a voice said from behind them. Bobby had also come down the stairs. "_NO_!" he repeated in a shrill cry. "Hank said everything would be all right! He _promised!_"

Uni hid behind a chair, frightened by her companion's sudden frenzy.

"Bobby," Diana said gently as she took a step toward him. The boy backed away.

"Where's Sheila? Where's my sister? H-he promised! He _promised_, Diana! He promised!"

The Acrobat reached out and grabbed Bobby by the wrist as he tried to back away again. She pulled the struggling boy to her and hugged him fiercely. Bobby continued to sob, fighting her only half-heartedly now. " . . . He promised! He promised! . . . "

"It's going to be okay, Bobby," Diana whispered.

" . . . He promised! He promised! . . . "

* * *

It was nearly nightfall when she returned. Initially, she had begun wandering numbly, not exactly sure where she had gone. When some of her faculties returned, she had attempted to reach the chasm below the ridge. But she couldn't find a way to get there; the steep incline made it impossible. Hank's arrow could have lowered her down, but . . .

Somehow, Sheila ended up back here – where she had last seen him. A large part of her was utterly convinced that this had to be some terrible nightmare. But, deep down, she knew: no matter how hard she prayed, there was no waking up from this dream.

After all that they had been through . . .Venger . . . Tiamat . . . even He Whose Name Can Not Be Spoken . . . They had come through it all in one piece. But now . . .

Sheila walked slowly to the top of the ridge and looked down again.

Nothing.

Nothing left but empty space and a crimson stain on the grass beneath her feet. Sheila stooped down again and touched the sticky reddened blades. She rubbed her fingers together and then fell heavily to her knees, as though finally gripped by the cruel reality of what had happened. Sheila could feel the moistness from the grass below her soaking through her high leather boots.

Hot tears burned behind her tight eyelids and began finding their way to her cheeks. She brought her trembling hands up and buried her face in them. Involuntarily, she touched her forehead gently with the tips of her fingers.

The spot where he had kissed her. After all this time, he had finally . . .

_Oh, Hank!_

Sheila's body became wracked with silent weeping. For as much as she felt like howling in pain, her body would make no sound. All she could do was wrap her arms around herself in an attempt to control the violent convulsions of sobs – afraid that she would surely crumble to pieces if she didn't.

To be continued . . .


	6. Broken Arrow

**Disclaimer:** All standard disclaimers apply. Don't own the series, but I do own the story. Hope it's enjoyed!

**Rating:** PG-13 for violent situations and mild language

**Author's Notes:** Ever write an entire story around one specific scene? This chapter has mine.

* * *

**Through a Mirror Darkly**

_**by N.L. Rummi**_

And death shall have no dominion.  
Dead men naked they shall be one  
With the man in the wind and the west moon;  
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,  
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;  
Though they go mad they shall be sane,  
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;  
_Though lovers be lost love shall not,  
And death shall have no dominion._

_Dylan Thomas_

* * *

_**Chapter Five - Broken Arrow**_

Isolde's eyes fluttered open. She blearily struggled to focus on what was in front of her, only to find that she was staring at the floor. She was also standing upright, in the middle of a dimly lit chamber. Her arms were bound tightly and painfully above her head; her feet were barely touching the ground.

She attempted to raise her head and look around, but her motions were met with a nauseating dizziness. Her head swimming, Isolde felt as though she might pass out again. She lowered her eyes once more.

_What happened to me? I can't remember._

The girl stiffened as her eyes converged at a point on the floor. She didn't really look at it, but used it as a point of focus. It was then that the memories of what had happened outside Xanaton flooded back to her.

_Yes, I do! I do remember. Rubin . . . he betrayed me. He . . . **used** me. Used me to take revenge on Llo-- Papa! Oh, by the gods! Papa!_

Isolde's head shot up at the thought of Lloros – her _father_ Lloros – bleeding profusely and helplessly from wounds she had inflicted with her own hand. The swift motion of her head sent a wave of dizziness over her again and her knees buckled beneath her. Her body hung flaccidly from her chains as she struggled to regain clarity.

_What have I done?_ she thought as she slowly straightened. _How could I have allowed him to turn me against Papa?_

Isolde mentally lashed herself for succumbing to the brainwashing, far worse than any whip ever could. Even the seven-year-old child she had been would know the difference between kindness and cruelty. But after living and breathing the life of an assassin for ten years, Isolde also knew that under conditions as dire as hers, the instinct for survival takes control. Given enough time, that instinct to survive may become an earnest belief in whatever one is being told. And she had fully come to believe that Lloros had been the cause of her torment. If it had not been for Hank, both she and her father might have . . . .

_Hank?_

Isolde's brow furrowed, causing a tight pull of the skin along the hairline of her forehead, where a patch of crusted blood had clotted. Hank had come back to save her. But why? She did not understand. In fact, everything about the crystal-eyed Ranger confused her. First, he befriended her. Then, he rejected and betrayed her. And then, even after what she had done, he had attempted to rescue her. But what had happened? Where was he? Why was she now here? What had happened to her? And what had happened to Papa?

A door behind her rattled open and Isolde heard footsteps entering the room. She recognized the metallic tread of Rubin's heavy boots on the stone floor of the underground Sect. She said nothing to him, but followed him with steely eyes as he appeared at her side and began to circle around her with a venomous smile. He stopped walking as he reached her other side and said, "You seem puzzled, my dear."

Isolde turned her eyes away. She knew that a response or even a look would give the man too much satisfaction. Heedless of her lack of cooperation, Rubin drew a step closer and continued. "I suppose you are wondering why your flaxen-haired hero was unable to whisk you away," he said, the icy words dripping from his lips. He took another step closer and reached out to stroke the girl's cheek with one rough knuckle. She briefly flinched at his touch, but continued to stand stiff. It was one of the things Rubin had taught her that was of any use now: "_Never give your enemy the pleasure of seeing your fear – only your hatred_."

"No one can take you away from me, my dear," he said with a mocking softness, ignoring her proud bravery. "This is your home. And you . . . you are mine." Rubin continued to eye her with a kind of bemused curiosity. He reached for a strand of her hair, which fell in loose, tangled strings beside her face. "Shall I tell you why your so-called hero did not rescue you?" he asked with a quiet smile as he curled one lock around his finger. "I could say that he was truly in league with me from the beginning and that he succeeded where you failed – that he destroyed Lloros for me and brought you back here."

Isolde scowled at every word.

"I could say that he was ultimately a coward and fled."

Isolde remained turned away as she swallowed hard.

"But I suppose," Rubin sighed, "after years of lies you finally deserve the truth." The Assassin drew his face only inches from hers and whispered maliciously into her ear. "Your Ranger . . . is _dead_."

Isolde turned a shaky head to meet Rubin's cold eyes with her burning ones. "You _lie_!" she hissed.

Rubin straightened away from her. "I might have known you would not believe me," he sighed again. "Not without proof." As he turned to walk away, he tossed something at the girl's feet. Isolde's eyes followed the sound until they came to rest on a slender dagger that had landed there. The blade was clean, but Isolde could see a darkened staining of the rough wooden handle, making it look a deeper brown. A moment later, Rubin's left glove landed on top of the dagger. Along the curve of the grip, the leather surface was stained the same reddish brown color. Isolde's body began to shake.

". . . no . . . ," she breathed.

"Pity," Rubin mused, this time from behind her. "He was rather brave. Just think, my dear: If you had not brought him into this, he would still be alive."

Satisfying Rubin's lust for feeding on weakness or not, Isolde could no longer control the sobs that shook her entire body.

"You feel responsible, don't you, dear?" Rubin said with mock-affection from behind her. "As though you should be punished for what you have done to him? Very well. That can be easily arranged."

Isolde's body ceased its trembling and stiffened almost instantly at the sound of a sharp crack behind her. She knew that sound. As the crack echoed again through the small room, she could feel the sudden whoosh of air against her bare skin.

_Bare skin?_

For the first time, Isolde realized that the back of her shirt was open – her naked scarred flesh exposed. She sighed wearily and closed her eyes, knowing too well what was to come. Only this time, she knew exactly who was doing it to her. She channeled her hatred, determined to use it to keep herself from screaming.

Rubin made her wait for several agonizing seconds before actually beginning. He delayed until he saw her body relax a bit – when the whip's first kiss would be almost unexpected. At the first lash, Isolde cried out sharply. Then she wrapped her fingers around her chains and bit her lip until she tasted the bitter tang of blood. She resolved not to do it again. Her skin sizzled under the heat of the flogging that followed. She squeezed her eyes shut as tears streamed down her face.

_Hank_, she prayed, _please give me strength._

* * *

"Sheila? Sheila. Wake up!" 

The Thief stirred in her spot on the ground. She knew she must have cried herself to sleep. Sheila rubbed her eyes. They felt as though they had become sealed shut by her salty tears; they were puffy and swollen to the touch. She glanced around sleepily at her surroundings and noticed that she was still on the ridge outside Xanaton. Sheila heard a voice speaking to her again and, this time, she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Wake up."

She raised her head and squinted up at the person hovering over her. Suddenly, her drowsy haze vanished as she focused fully on the china-blue eyes of the person who knelt there.

"Oh, my _God,_" she breathed. "_Hank!_"

She flew upward from her spot on the ground and was instantly in his arms. Her head was a whirl of disbelief and relieved gratitude. It felt as though many moments passed before she could speak again.

"I _saw_ him . . . ," she finally gasped. "I thought you were . . . Oh, _God!_ How did you . . . ?" Sheila trembled like a leaf as Hank's arms wrapped tightly around her.

"It's okay," he whispered. "I'm here." He eased Sheila out of their fierce embrace and cupped her face in his hands. He wiped her new tears away gently with this thumbs. "Are you okay?" he asked.

Sheila nodded, but began to notice a bubbling dread in the pit of her stomach – leftover horror from what she had seen happen to him. She grabbed onto his wrists tightly as his hands continued to cup her face.

"There isn't a lot of time, Sheila," Hank said. "I need you to do something for me."

Sheila looked confused. "What do you mean? A lot of time for what?" She squeezed his wrists tighter to prove to herself that he was real.

Hank lowered his hands to his knees, and hers along with them. He flipped his palms over and gripped her hands firmly. "I need you to find the 'lost soul'," he answered, looking insistently into her face. "It's not over yet. You have to help Isolde. Please, Sheila. Find the others and help her."

Sheila narrowed her eyes at him. "What?" she asked quietly. "What about you? We have to get you to the—" Her words stopped abruptly as she glanced down to his stomach. She gasped. The wound that Rubin had inflicted was no longer there. Sheila liberated one of her hands from Hank's grip and reached tentatively toward it. The blood was gone too. "How?" she asked, barely in a breath.

"Sheila, please," Hank said again. "Before I go, promise me you'll do this."

Sheila had a difficult time processing his words at first – she was so staggered, both by his reappearance and by his astounding lack of injury. When what he had said finally registered, she glanced dazedly from the clean spot on his uniform back to his face. She narrowed her gaze at him again. "Go? Where are you—?"

There was a rush of movement, and Sheila spoke her last words into Hank's mouth, which was suddenly on hers. Once again, her mind was wiped of any rational thought. After a quick whimper of surprise, Sheila unconsciously wrapped her arms around his neck and held on for dear life. Hank's lips were firm and gentle, but tinged with a noticeable desperation. Sheila gripped him tighter, and Hank deepened the kiss.

His arms encircled her waist; his fists clutched two great handfuls of her dusty cape. Sheila rose higher onto her knees to meet his body with hers. A warm rush flooded through her as she instinctively and eagerly leaned into him.

Hank allowed his lips to linger there for another moment before easing back. He pressed his forehead to Sheila's and they stayed that way for a few seconds. Sheila squeezed her eyes shut and sank her fingers into his hair. She wouldn't have minded staying this way forever.

Finally, Hank's hands trailed upward to cradle her face once more. He backed off and tilted his head with a smile. His eyes searched for contact with hers. "Promise me?" he asked again in a whisper.

Sheila suddenly couldn't speak. She felt him move back away from her. She was still so thunderstruck, the Realm could have collapsed around her and she probably wouldn't have noticed. The sound of Hank's voice brought her back to herself. When she realized he had been speaking to her, she mutely nodded her head "yes." Hank tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. His smile turned sad as he touched her face again.

"Thank you," he replied as he rose, leaving Sheila kneeling on the ground at his feet. "I have to go now."

"G-go? Where?" Sheila asked, finally finding her voice as Hank walked to the edge of the ridge. "Hank?"

Hank turned at the sound of his name. "I'll always be with you, Sheila," he said as he faced her again. Sheila drew a horrified breath at the sight of the angry red stains blooming out from the center of his tunic once more. "Hank?" she shuddered. "_Hank?_"

"Goodbye," Hank whispered as he took a step back – over the edge of the cliff.

"_HANK!_"

Sheila awoke with a strangled scream and looked around, wide-eyed. She was, as she remembered, on top of the ridge outside Xanaton. And she was alone. Hank was not there, nor was there any indication that he had ever been there . . . aside from what was left of the sticky stains on the grass. The dim glow of evening lay upon the surroundings like a soft blanket, but there was still enough light for Sheila to see everything around her. The sky was filled with the gray glow that usually lingered after the last of the Realm's four suns had set.

Sheila climbed to her knees. Her fingers tentatively touched her lips. She swore they were still tingling. _A dream?_ But it had felt so real. She rose to her feet, gazing out over the chasm below, then shifted her sight toward Xanaton. A look of equal parts determination and sadness spread across her face.

_This is no time to fall apart_, she chided herself. No doubt Eric had told the others by now. And Bobby – Bobby would be lost without Hank. He needed her . . . and she had to get back.

Reflexively, Sheila thought about Isolde. That girl had been nothing but trouble and misery from the moment she came crashing into their lives. Because of her, they had all lost so much. At this moment, the Thief wanted nothing more than to forget her promise to Lloros to return his daughter. An uncompassionate thought . . . a first for Sheila.

_Isolde_.

She was the reason Hank was . . . gone. However, Sheila knew that, even from the beginning, Hank had wanted to help her, regardless of what she had done. _All right, then_, Sheila decided. She owed Isolde nothing, especially now, but she owed Hank everything.

Everything.

"I promise," Sheila breathed silently to the sky. She dried her eyes and wrapped her cloak around her body. Pulling the hood over her head, Sheila ran in the direction of Xanaton.

* * *

Diana was worried. 

Perhaps an understatement, but she didn't know how else to categorize her feelings. She closed the door behind her to the room where Bobby and Uni were curled together, trying to rest. After about an hour of hysterical, hyperventilating sobbing, the boy had finally drifted off into a fitful sleep. The Acrobat was deeply concerned for him. _No boy his age should have to deal with this_, she thought ruefully.

She glanced over to where Presto was dozing restlessly in a chair by the fire, his arms wrapped tightly around his body. He hadn't moved from that spot since Eric had arrived with the horrible news. The Magician had sunk down in mute disbelief and stayed that way for a very long time. He had stared off into space for a while and had just now, thankfully, begun to allow himself to sleep as well.

Diana worried about Eric. He had gone outside quite some time ago and, although Diana thought it best to leave him alone for a while, she worried about what he was thinking. She didn't need him to tell her that he felt in some way responsible for Hank's death. Eric the Cavalier – the group's resident, albeit often reluctant, protector – unable to reach his friend in time to save his life. What must this be doing to him?

And Sheila? _God knows where she is right now._ Diana's heart broke for her friend. She knew that Sheila had had a definite connection with Hank . . . even though neither one of them had ever acted upon it. It was horrible to think that now they never would.

Diana tried to fathom what the other girl must be feeling. She knew – somewhat. She had lost Kosar right before her own eyes as well. But this seemed different. Something told her that Dungeon Master wasn't about to show up with a cryptic message about how Hank and Sheila would one day meet again. It just seemed too cruel to even think about.

Diana worried about her friends – each lost in some incomprehensible way – that she almost forgot to wonder when she, herself, would be afforded the opportunity to grieve for Hank. He was, after all, her best friend for a long time. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Diana decided that the only way to really do anything for Hank now was to take care of the people he had tried to take care of . . . protect those he had fought to protect . . . and fight the nagging desire to drown in her own self-pity.

Diana descended the stairs after checking on Lloros again. The healers had nearly finished treating his wounds, although hearing about Isolde's recapture probably hadn't done much to speed his recovery. The Acrobat gave a despairing sigh. She had been filling two roles tonight – Hank's as group leader and Sheila's as group nurturer – and she was tired. She decided to go outside for some fresh air.

"Hey," a grim voice said from her right as she left the house. Eric was sitting on the wooden bench just outside the door. Diana returned the greeting with a wan smile. "How're you holding up?" Eric asked.

Diana shrugged. "Okay, I guess. Considering." She looked up at the sky before speaking again. "Why don't you go in and get some rest," she suggested.

Eric shook his head.

"Okay, then," Diana sighed as she turned to go back in, not wanting to muscle in on Eric's time alone. "Let me know if you need anything."

"I-I'm sorry, Diana," Eric said suddenly. "I think I'm doing this all wrong. The last time Hank disappeared I handled it a lot better."

The Acrobat turned back to him. She, too, remembered the time that the Darkling had taken the Ranger from them. Hank was one of almost a hundred victims whose essences would have allowed the Darkling to become one of the most powerful beings in the Realm . . . had he been permitted to feed upon them once his collection was complete.

Eric had, indeed, acted in rare form. He was level-headed, rational, determined and, most importantly if not uncharacteristically, very brave. Diana walked back over to where he was sitting and eased down next to him, cautiously placing her hand on his arm. He looked lost.

"Don't worry about it, Eric," she said. "The last time Hank disappeared we all thought there was a chance we'd get him back. This is . . . different . . . and we're all really emotional right now. Take all the time you need." Giving his arm a gentle squeeze, she got up to leave again.

"How are you doing this?" Eric asked from behind her.

Diana stopped, but didn't turn. She wrapped her arms around herself and lowered her head.

"What choice do we have?" she said. Her voice was hoarse. "We have to get through this somehow." Diana turned to face him again, eyes shining with tears that she wouldn't allow to flow. "Presto's so in shock he hasn't spoken a word since you got back. Bobby's an emotional wreck. He's lost without Hank and he's practically sick worrying about his sister. And Sheila . . . ? Who even knows _where_ she's disappeared to." Diana furrowed her brow and tilted her head to the sky in a vain attempt to keep her tears at bay. "In comparison, Eric, I'd say you're a trooper."

Eric rested his elbows on his knees and lowered his head. "It's my fault, you know," he said quietly.

Diana suddenly slid to the bench beside him once more, trying to get him to look at her. Perhaps going off on how much everybody was hurting wasn't the best idea. Eric was obviously taking this very hard. "Don't you do that to yourself," she said, gentle but insistent. "There was nothing you could do."

"You don't know that," Eric snapped. The desperate pitch of his voice rose with each word. "I tried to stop Sheila from getting herself killed by Rubin too. If I had just let her go, maybe she could have reached him. Maybe _I_ could have reached him. I was so sure that it was too late, but what if it wasn't? What if . . . ?"

"Listen to me," Diana said firmly, gripping Eric's shoulders. "You did what you thought was best. You can't—"

"LOOK at this!" Eric cried, thrusting the red palm of his gauntlet only inches away from Diana's face. "After all those times that I challenged Hank's leadership! Now _I'm_ the one faced with a life or death decision and LOOK what I do!"

"Eric," Diana pleaded soothingly.

The Cavalier glanced at his griffin-faced shield in the dirt at his feet. He gave it a disgusted kick. "Dungeon Master gave me one job when we got to this world. _One_ job! I'm the one who protects everybody. You'd think after all the time I spent ducking for cover that I'd be good at it by now! But I can't even do _that_ right! Hank would have done exactly the right thing," Eric insisted.

"Sheila hates me for what I've done," he said when Diana made no immediate response. "I could see it in her eyes. Now if something happens to her, that'll be my fault, too. Bobby hates me. He'll never be the same. Presto probably hates me. And Hank was one of your best friends." He shot a quick pained glance at Diana before sharply turning his head away. "You don't have to pretend not to hate me too."

"Is that what you're trying to make me do? Will that make things better for you?" Diana replied steadily. When he didn't respond, she sighed again and said, "In case you've forgotten, Eric, we've all seen you shoulder the burden of leadership before. And you've handled it very well. Nobody ever said that Hank's decisions were easy. I could never tell you what he would have done in this situation, but I do know that sometimes the 'right' decision is not always the easiest to handle. Trust me, I've been there too. I do believe that you did what you thought was best." She turned his face so he would look at her again. "I don't hate you, Eric. None of us do. I guarantee it. The blame belongs somewhere, but _not_ on you."

Eric raised his eyebrow to her. "Do you really believe that or are you just trying to make me feel better?"

"Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Feel better?" Diana tried to smile at him as he managed a nod.

They sat in silence for several moments, each lost in his and her own thoughts. Diana, for her part, regretted the silence immediately because it gave her the time to think about all the things that she had pushed out of her mind while looking after the others. The next time the Cavalier looked at her, Diana's eyes were brimming with tears.

She had tried to wait until she was alone, but after being strong for everyone else, the deluge of emotion just overtook her at exactly the wrong moment. Her chin quivered and she rose to her feet to get away from Eric before she lost it completely. She managed to turn away and walk a few steps before she felt his hand close on her wrist and pull her back to him. Unconsciously, she turned to face him again. Eric cautiously folded his arms around her, and Diana gave in, allowing him to hold her as she sobbed on his shoulder. Her fingers curled into the folds of his cape as though, through her tidal wave of emotion, Eric was now the only thing keeping her head above water.

He didn't seem to mind. Or at least, to his credit, he didn't say anything.

After a few minutes she pulled away, shaking her head. "Sorry," she apologized.

"Don't be," Eric said with a shrug as he wiped a tear from her face with his thumb. "I was wondering when you were going to take your turn." He walked back to the bench and sat down. "I don't suppose I could convince you to stay out here and wallow with me."

Diana took a deep quivering breath, as her sobs had not yet subsided completely, and shook her head with a grim smile. "I'm going back inside to check on the others."

"You know where to find me when you're tired of being strong for everybody else," Eric offered.

"Thanks," Diana replied. "Don't think I won't take you up on that. But right now I think we should concentrate on—"

A cry from inside the house stopped her mid-sentence. Both she and Eric snapped to attention and bolted for the door. They heard Bobby's yell again as they neared his room.

"Sheila! Sheila!"

Diana skidded to a halt in front of the already-open door, followed closely by Eric. Inside the room, a now-alert Presto was sitting on the bed where Sheila was cradling her brother in her arms. The boy, normally one to shrug his way out of a "gushy" embrace, was allowing the Thief to rock and soothe him like the frightened child that he was. After all that they had been through in the Realm, it was easy to forget that the brave and rash Barbarian was actually a ten-year-old little boy. And today, he was a deeply grieving ten-year-old little boy.

"Shhh, Bobby. It's all right. It's all right," Sheila repeated quietly.

"Sheila," Diana said, relieved. "You're okay."

Planting a kiss on her brother's forehead, Sheila rose off the bed and looked at Eric, half expecting him to admonish her for what she had done on the ridge. When he didn't, she spoke cautiously. "I'm so sorry, Eric. I should never have disappeared on you like that. We're all in pain and we need to face this together."

"Sheila?" Presto asked, his first word in several hours. "Is it true?"

Sheila looked down at him sadly but matronly and nodded as she laid her hand on his shoulder. Presto removed his glasses and wiped his newly forming tears in his sleeve.

Golon appeared at the door behind Eric and Diana. Bobby's shout must have brought him running to investigate the cause of the commotion. Seeing Sheila, he entered the room with cautious sorrow.

"I am truly sorry, my dear," he said to her. "Sorry for not trusting in your word regarding your friend, and sorry for what has happened to him as a result. You will never know how grateful we the people of Xanaton are for his rescue of Lloros."

Sheila nodded in acceptance. "We're not finished yet," she insisted, her voice strong and determined regardless of the deep sadness that she felt. She turned to her friends. "We still have to save Isolde."

"What?" Eric wailed, suddenly sounding more like his old self. "Are you nuts? How are we supposed to do that now? Hank was our guy on the inside. It's not like they're going to fall for letting another one of us mosey on into their sect so we can save her!"

"Eric," Sheila continued, "Hank had a feeling about that girl. He thought she was the lost soul that Dungeon Master said we had to save. We should—"

"Look," Eric interrupted, "I don't want to be the insensitive jerk here, but this Rubin guy _killed_ Hank. If Hank couldn't take him, I don't see how we can do it."

"Also," added Golon, keeping his voice low so Lloros would not hear him from upstairs, "I fear that it may be too late for the girl by this point. Rubin has gotten what he wanted from her. It is possible that he has no further use for her. He will most likely dispose of her upon returning to the sect." Golon sighed despairingly. "It is usually only a matter of time before the members of the League of Ghosts become ghosts, themselves."

Presto narrowed his gaze and gave Golon a puzzled look. "What 'League of Ghosts'?" he asked.

"The Choros Sect," Golon answered. "The word 'choros' means 'ghost' in the language of the assassins. The sect name is a symbol of how they are able to move almost unnoticed while wearing their stealth cloaks. It also represents the wake of death that follows them."

"Terrific," Eric grumbled. "I say we scrap DM's stupid mission. It's already cost us too much."

"Dungeon Master did say that we wouldn't all be looking in the same place," Presto offered. "Maybe he knew we were going to be separated. Maybe he knew something like this was going . . ."

"If he did," Eric shot back hotly. "If he _knew_ that Hank was going to die and didn't tell us . . . !"

"Eric," Sheila said gently, "Hank did what he did because he felt he had to. How it turned out is nobody's fault but Rubin's." A scowl of determination and anger appeared on the Thief's face. "Hank risked everything to save Isolde because he knew it was the right thing to do. I refuse to let that be for nothing. I'm going to try to save her, Eric. Alone, if I have to."

Diana reached forward and took Sheila's hand. "That's not even an option," she said. "This was important to Hank and we're all going to finish it."

Sheila nodded gratefully. "Rubin's never going to hurt anyone like this again. We're going to stop that ruthless monster."

Diana nodded and Sheila reached down to gently stroke her brother's hair.

They stood in silence for what felt like a long time. Ultimately, Eric was the one to break it. "So we go," he muttered quietly before piping up with his usual bellow, "Man, I hate this world! Now we have to go charging into the Spirit Club looking for _one_ lost soul!"

Diana smiled grimly. She was glad that at least some things hadn't changed. Then, suddenly, a thought struck her.

Eric glanced over at Diana to see her eyes wide and her mouth gaping. "What?" he asked self-consciously.

Diana's mouth widened into a larger grin. "Eric," she said, "you might just be a genius."

"I am?" Eric didn't want to argue, but he didn't understand either. "Why?"

"Think about what you just said!"

The Cavalier shrugged. "I said, 'I hate this world.'"

Presto also shrugged. "That's no different than usual."

Diana shook her head. "Golon said that the Choros Sect is also known as the League of Ghosts," she explained. "You called it the 'Spirit Club.' So, what's another word for 'spirit'?" She looked at him coaxingly.

Eric groaned. "I was never very good at crosswords, word games . . . or English class for that matter. What do I look like? A walking thesaurus?"

Diana rolled her eyes. "_Soul!_" she exclaimed, "Dungeon Master said that the 'lost soul' must be found or many lives could be lost. Hank thought he was talking about Isolde, but he was only half right. The League of Ghosts _is_ the League of the Soul! Dungeon Master didn't send us to save one person . . ."

"He sent us to save the entire Assassin's guild," Presto completed her thought. "The Lost Soul!"

"From the looks of it, the members of that Sect are merely children," Golon added thoughtfully. "If they were all tricked, as Isolde was, countless lives _could_ be lost needlessly – simply because Rubin was using them in his own twisted plots for revenge."

Sheila strode deliberately toward the door. "We finish this, then," she said with determination. "For Hank."

"My dear!" Golon called after her. "We have never been able to find the Choros Sect. We do not know where it is located."

Eric looked at the man before walking behind Sheila, followed closely by the other Young Ones.

"Maybe not," he said, "but we know someone who did."

* * *

Hank had been able to do one final thing for his friends. The singed undergrowth of the forest, the path he had left to lead them to the Choros Sect, had not been disturbed. The Young Ones deliberated over whether the trail was purposefully neglected to lead them into a trap, or whether the assassins had truly not noticed it. Either way, it was still there and, after some considerable walking, it enabled the Young Ones to reach the mouth of the Choros Sect's underground cavern. 

Eric eyed the young guards posted at the entrance to the cave as he and his friends crouched some distance away. "They're not gonna buy that we're here to help them," he whispered.

"Then we need to find Isolde," Sheila suggested. "If she's still alive, she can help us convince them."

Eric nodded reluctantly, knowing all too well what the Thief was getting at. Bobby knew too.

"No!" he protested in a panicked whisper. "Sheila, you can't go in by yourself!"

Always the bravest, or perhaps the most reckless one, who often rushed into the fray without thinking, Bobby had now become very cautious – scared to death of losing someone else that he loved. He gripped his sister's arm desperately to keep her from leaving.

Sheila looked upon him softly. She didn't need to say anything. The boy knew that this was the only way. But he didn't like it. "Please be careful," he said as he released his grip on her arm.

Eric placed a comforting hand on the young Barbarian's shoulder. "Don't worry, Squirt," he teased. "We're gonna be creating such a racket out here, they won't even notice Sheila."

Bobby shoved Eric's hand away and gripped his club. "Watch who you're callin' a Squirt!" Uni snorted in agreement.

Backing away from the boy's brandished weapon, Eric flashed a wink in Sheila's direction. The Thief was relieved that Eric was able to get Bobby to act more like himself. She smiled gratefully as she turned to Diana.

"I'll try to make my way back once I find her," she said. "You guys be careful too."

"Sheila," Diana said as the Thief turned to leave. But she didn't know what else to say after that.

"I loved him, Diana," Sheila said softly. "I really did." She faced the Acrobat with tears in her eyes. "Do you think he knew?"

Diana nodded with a sad smile. "And I know he loved you too."

Sheila squeezed her eyes shut to rid herself of the tears. "I'll be back," she said as she pulled her hood over her head and vanished.

"Now what?" Presto asked. "How much time should we give her before creating a distraction?"

A rustle in the bushes behind them sent the remaining four Young Ones and Uni spinning around. Several assassins emerged from the forest thicket. "I'd say not much!" Eric gulped.

"Fine by me!" growled Bobby as he leapt forward with his club raised.

* * *

Sheila stepped cautiously through the dank corridors of the underground cavern. The stone hallways were dotted with torches, but the dim light they created didn't help much. Sheila gripped the hood of her cloak tightly, as it was the only thing she had to hold onto. For as grateful as she often was that Dungeon Master had not given her an actual weapon on the day that they arrived in the Realm, she sometimes wished that she had something more with which to defend herself – especially when she was forced to act alone – although she could never envision herself actually using it. But having something in her hand might, at least, keep her fingers from trembling. 

The Thief stepped to the side and allowed several assassins to run past her. They were shouting about the intruders who had found their way to the cavern and were now fighting outside. Sheila worried about her friends and prayed that they would be all right until she got back.

She tiptoed quickly through each hallway, checking in every room for Isolde. What if Golon was right? What if the girl was dead? But something told her that Rubin would be loath to give up his hold on the girl so quickly. Golon may have believed that she was no longer useful to the assassin leader, but, with Lloros still alive, Rubin would most likely prefer to keep her as his trump card – waiting for another chance to play it.

Sheila approached a set of heavy double doors. She looked at them and glanced around cautiously before pushing one of them slightly open so that she might slip through. Once inside, she stared at her surroundings. In front of her was a circle of light, created by a ring of free-standing torches. The area in which she now stood was completely in darkness, as was the entire perimeter of the large room. Sheila decided to make her way toward the light.

She was surprised at how the soft tread of her leather boots echoed slightly upon the floor, and she slowed and cautioned her pace. Even though she was completely invisible, her magic cloak could not shroud any sounds she made. As she stepped into the lighted circle, she tightened her grip on her hood. She could be easily spotted here and she wanted to be sure that it didn't slip off. The room appeared empty, but with so much of the outer wall in complete shadow, there was no way of knowing what else was hidden in here. She decided to take a risk and call out quietly. "Isolde? Can you hear me?"

When nothing happened, Sheila relaxed a bit. If there were any assassins nearby, surely they would have charged her upon hearing her voice. She called out again, a bit louder, "Isolde? Are you in here?"

A quiet groan sounded from the black beyond the Thief. She quickly removed her hood and ran for the darkness in front of her, calling out again, "Isolde! It's Sheila! I'm here to—"

Directly in front of her, a figure emerged. But it wasn't Isolde. The man's mud-brown eyes, squinted callously at Sheila as he flashed that same vindictive grin he had given to her on the ridge outside Xanaton. His already sallow skin seemed even more sickly in the poor light of the chamber. But still, he smiled.

Sheila shuddered as she recognized the snarling face.

"_You!_" she breathed. Rubin took another step toward her.

"If it isn't another one of Dungeon Master's whelps trying to play hero," the evil man mused. "You are a bigger fool than I thought if you and your friends believe you can stop me, girl. I have dispatched far greater challenges than you." He sneered at her. His voice was purposefully cruel as he added, "And that pitiful Ranger was not one of them."

Sheila scowled in pain at the mention of Hank by this disgusting human being. She backed away from him as he continued to advance on her. Suddenly, Rubin made a grab for her and Sheila yelped and jumped back. Instinctively, she turned and ran, her feet scrambling along the floor. She didn't know where she was going or what she was going to do next, but she did know that she had to get out of there. She started to raise her hood again.

A sharp crack filled the air. The sound was immediately followed by a violent tug and one of Sheila's legs was yanked out from under her as Rubin heaved his whip back. The Thief screamed as she felt herself pitch forward onto the hard stone ground, striking her forehead.

Sheila saw an explosion of stars against blackness as her head seemed to burst in a riot of pain. She opened her eyes and dim chamber around her upended itself as her vision swam violently. Barely conscious, she heard Rubin's boots resonating through the room as he approached her prone body. Her panicked mind shrieked at her to move, but her senseless limbs could do nothing. Sheila felt a rough hand tightly grip her hair and pull her head back.

She emitted a groggy whimper of protest as she felt a cold steel blade pressed to her throat, but was powerless to do anything else. Rubin snarled down at her and knelt at her side.

"Dungeon Master's meddlesome pests have interfered for the last time," he spat. Sheila could feel a shower of spittle upon her face and smell the hot acridness of Rubin's breath as he growled his words against her cheek. He chuckled viscously low in his chest and clenched the dagger tighter in his fist, pressing its sharp edge into the curve of her neck.

"_LET - HER - GO!_"

A voice echoed with fierce determination through the circular chamber. Rubin glanced up. He was surprised for a brief moment, then an amused smile returned to his lips.

"Well," he said, "I must admit that I believed it to be a story filled with superstitious nonsense. The Chamber of Ghosts was always rumored to be a place where the voices of dead assassins could be heard. At the very least, I didn't think it would apply to impostors!"

A semi-conscious Sheila forced her bleary eyes to stare into the darkness in front of her. She was barely able to focus as tears streamed down her face. Rubin gripped her hair more tightly and held the knife steady against her throat. His voice remained playful and mocking.

"It's a pity, really," he continued, "to have the tales be true. And here you are. Yet, as a spirit, unable to do anything to stop me." His grin widened evilly. "Do not worry, though. Your friend shall soon be joining you, . . . Hank the Choros . . . Hank the Ghost!"

A blaze of golden fire exploded through the darkness, lighting the outer circumference of the chamber. Rubin's evil, confident sneer melted into a grimace of dread and panic as he found himself staring at the pointed flame of an energy arrow.

The young man holding the golden weapon took a step toward him, an even greater fire burning behind his blue eyes.

"That's Hank the Ranger to you, you son of a bitch."

To be continued . . .


	7. Endgame

**Disclaimer:** All standard disclaimers apply. Don't own the series, but I do own the story.

**Rating:** PG-13 for violent situations and mild language

**Author's Notes:** This is for my very good friend Julie Jordan, who never let me forget about this fic – even when, sometimes, I really felt like it. If the story is good, it is probably because her encouragement only made me want to improve upon it. If it falls short in some way, that would be due to my own shortcomings. Many hugs to you, sweetie.

Thanks to everyone else who offered feedback and support. (Especially to Sealgirl for the Lego scene! ((hugs))) I hope you enjoy the end of the story. A very brief epilogue will follow.

* * *

**_Through a Mirror Darkly_ **

**by N.L. Rummi**

_I need to know if you were real.  
__I'd hate to think that I'd been fooled again.  
__And as the vision fades  
__I'll say I was blinded by your eyes.  
__I felt them burn._

Vertical Horizon

* * *

_**  
Chapter Six - Endgame**_

"_You!_" Rubin kept his hold on Sheila, but removed the blade from her throat. He pointed it toward the teenaged boy in front of him; it quivered noticeably. "Haunt me no further!" he said as Hank took another step toward him. "I killed you!"

With an insolent raise of his eyebrow, Hank loosed an arrow toward the floor directly in front of Rubin. The blast sent him floundering back and away from Sheila.

The Thief, still dazed, felt her head drop from his grip, but managed to keep it from hitting the floor again. She struggled back toward full consciousness, fought to reclaim control of her body, and slowly began to lift herself off her stomach.

Rubin landed hard on his back and stared in shock at the scorch mark the Ranger's arrow had left on the floor. This was no apparition.

He shifted his wide-eyed gaze to Hank. The contemptuous brass had vanished from the young man's face and he was now seething in anger as he drew another arrow. Rubin scrambled to his knees again and attempted to stand. His dagger trembled in his grip as he stared at Hank in disbelieving alarm. As he began to straighten, Hank released his next arrow, sending Rubin off balance yet again.

Rubin reached down to catch himself and his vision lowered to the scarlet stain on the Ranger's tunic. He pushed himself upright and backward for a few staggering steps.

"This isn't possible," he growled in protest. "I felt my blade enter your gut!" Rubin straightened defiantly, as though that allegation was enough to stop the advancing Ranger in his tracks.

Hank simply reached his hand beneath the front of his bloodstained tunic and pulled out an even redder leather pouch. He tossed it forcefully at the Assassin's feet. Rubin could see that it was a punctured water skin.

Rubin stared at it for a moment, then he blinked and brought his gaze back up to meet Hank's. He sneered and his eyes blazed. His grip on his dagger tightened. Hank raised another arrow to his cheek while the Assassin struck his own battle-ready stance.

Rubin stood glowering at Hank. Then he spun around and fled into the darkness.

Hank's arrow evaporated as he brought it down. He stared into the area where Rubin had vanished. After a moment, he turned back to tend to Sheila.

The Thief was kneeling on the stone floor of the Chamber of Ghosts, trembling as she looked at him. Hank fell to one knee in front of her. "Are you all right?" he asked.

Sheila brought a shaky hand to her mouth and squinted her eyes to fight back tears. _Another dream?_ she thought in dismay. _Or a hallucination? _she added, wincing at the pain filling her head from its impact with the floor. Her hand unconsciously released her mouth and she reached it out in front of her. _Or maybe I'm dead too._

Her fingers trembled uncontrollably as she held them only inches away from Hank's shoulder, afraid that if she tried to touch him he would vanish. "Are you real?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Hank smiled softly. "I'm not a ghost, if that's what you mean," he said gently. Sheila allowed her trembling hand to inch forward, tentatively touching the fabric of his tunic. She emitted a tiny cry when her fingertips made contact with a solid shoulder.

He was real. He was really real.

Hank brought his hand up to her face and she leaned into it. Then, with a sudden soul-shaking cry that was a mixture of sadness, relief, and disbelieving joy, Sheila tightened her fist intensely around the cloth at Hank's shoulder and pulled him to her in a fierce embrace, throwing her arms madly around his neck and crying as she held onto him for dear life. "Oh, _Hank!_"

Hank's arms around her were just as tight. He let out a shuddering breath and tried not to think of what could have happened if he had arrived only a few seconds later. He strengthened his grip and pushed the thought from his mind.

"I'm so sorry, Sheila. So sorry," he echoed over and over again as he brought up a hand to stroke her hair.

She pulled away from him suddenly, her face stained with tears. "How?" Sheila asked him in a cracked sob.

Hank shook his head. He suddenly looked as though he was ashamed. "I'm so sorry," he repeated again. "You were never supposed to see that. That's why I told you and the others to get out of there."

Sheila swallowed another sob. "You . . . you _knew_ he was going to do that?" she asked.

"No," Hank admitted, "not _that_, exactly. Not at first. Dungeon Master told me that I would know who could be trusted and who couldn't. Believe me, it didn't take a lot of thought to figure out that guy was bad news. He acted like he trusted me too much, too soon. I guess I just planned for the worst," Hank explained as he rose to his feet. "Although," he added, flinching a bit as he straightened, "it wasn't all fake." He pressed his hand tentatively against his abdomen. "The water skin only blocked so much."

Sheila came right up with him, not daring to let go even for a second. She frowned and narrowed her eyes at the spot where Hank's wound would be. She reached for it. "Let me see."

Hank shook his head. "Not much to see at the moment."

"Hank, you're hurt," Sheila insisted and reached for his hand to pry it away from his stomach. Her body faltered a bit at the quick movement and her legs wavered. Sheila barely seemed to notice the dizzy feeling that still flooded her head from nearly losing consciousness before.

Hank noticed, however, and tightened his grip to steady her. He caught hold of her reaching fingers with the hand that had been pressed to his abdomen and held them firmly.

Sheila looked up at him slowly. Her eyes were shining with tears again. "Why did you let him hurt you?" she asked softly.

"I didn't plan on it," the Ranger admitted. "I didn't know what to expect from him, so I wanted to be protected somehow without giving myself away. He was a lot stronger than I thought, so when he pulled the knife on me all I could do was sort of help his aim a bit." He glanced down to the red stain on his tunic. "Better where there was some protection than anywhere else. Plus, I figured if Rubin thought I was dead, it would make it easier to sneak back in here. So I let him think it." Hank shook his head in remorse. "I swear to you, Sheila: I thought you guys would be long gone and that I would meet you back in Xanaton later."

Sheila stared up at him. Her expression was an odd mixture of sorrow, weariness, and disbelieving hope. One of Hank's hands pressed securely against her back while the other tightened its grip on her fingers. Sheila sighed heavily and dropped her head to his shoulder. Hank could feel her boneless exhaustion finally seeping out of her as he held her close to him again.

"But where did you go . . . after?" Sheila asked. Her voice was muffled as her face remained pressed against his shoulder. "I . . . I looked for you. I _searched_ for you." Sheila's words became heated – accusatory. She pulled away from him. Her expression was angry now. "I was practically destroyed over this, Hank! We all were. Why didn't you come to us, first?"

Hank couldn't meet her eyes. He hung his head. "I know," he said quietly. "I can't say anything other than I'm sorry. There was a shallow cave a few feet below the top of the cliff. I used my arrow to swing inside it and stayed there until I was sure Rubin was gone. It took me a while to get out. There was some kind of bottomless chasm underneath me so, believe me, that wasn't easy."

"I know," Sheila hoarsely replied.

"There weren't many solid outcroppings I could use to climb out, either, even with my arrows," he tried to explain. Hank gestured toward a puddle of black cloth, discarded on the ground a few feet away. "When I finally made it back, I found a guard outside and _borrowed_ his stealth cloak. That's how I got in. As soon as I arrived here, I saw you. I'm so sorry," he repeated again. "You're right: I should have gotten word to you and the others. But by the time I reached the top of the chasm, I thought it might already be too late."

Hank glanced up gingerly and found himself looking into unmistakably angered blue-green eyes. It was clear that Sheila had risked everything to come in here and finish what he had started. Hank shuddered to think that his actions could have cost her life. If Rubin had harmed her . . .

Sheila, for her part, was deeply angered. He had been there! He had been _right there_ below her while she cried her heart out for him. She suddenly shoved herself away from him and pointed an accusing finger toward his face. "Don't you ever, _ever_ do that to me again, Ranger!" she said. "Or I'll never forgive you! I swear to God, I won't! _Ever_!"

Hank smiled in spite of himself. She was so beautiful, even when she was furious with him. "I won't," he said. "I promise."

Sheila stood, fuming, in front of him for a few more seconds. Then she felt the fight seep out of her. Her shoulders sagged and she managed a weak but joyful smile. Sheila stepped toward Hank and melted back into his arms, eternally grateful that his arms were really there.

* * *

After leaving the Chamber of Ghosts, Sheila filled Hank in on everything that they had discovered since parting company two days ago. She told him how they had learned that Dungeon Master's task was to rescue the members of the Choros Sect – the League of the Soul – from Rubin's control. She also told him that their friends were still outside, trying to keep the diversion going until Sheila returned with Isolde. 

Hank listened with determined interest as the two made their way through the dank halls of the caverns. He agreed that their best bet was to find Isolde first. Helping her would certainly help them in their mission.

The two Young Ones traveled rather easily through the underground caverns, although they were constantly aware that Rubin knew they were here. Sheila was completely undetectable while veiled in her cloak, and Hank, while not completely invisible, was somewhat clandestine himself. Even if other assassins took notice of him, he looked very much like the rest of them while wrapped in the stealth cloak.

"It's getting so cold," Sheila whispered as they entered a particularly dark hallway.

Hank nodded. "This is where the ice chamber is," he told her. "And a lot of empty cells. If Rubin has Isolde, he would probably keep her down here, hidden away from the other assassins. The others never question him, but they did seem to trust Isolde. And something tells me that Isolde would probably have a lot to say about Rubin now – things he wouldn't want those other kids to hear. He might be afraid they'd actually listen."

"He doesn't even trust his own brainwashing ability, does he?" Sheila remarked as she continued to glance inside the tiny windows of each cell.

Hank suddenly didn't feel her next to him. Even when she was invisible, he always seemed to be able to tell if she was there or not. He turned back around at the sound of a door creaking open. As Hank backtracked several steps to the cell doorway, he suddenly heard Sheila quietly call his name. He slipped through the opening, and his breath caught in his throat.

The Thief was standing before an unconscious Isolde, whose arms were bound high above her head. The girl dangled limply from her chains as Sheila gently patted her cheek, trying to rouse her. Sheila turned back to Hank and shook her head.

"I think she's hurt pretty bad."

Hank swallowed and took a step back as he drew an arrow. "Hold on to her, Sheila," he instructed as he took aim at the chains.

Sheila supported Isolde's limp form as Hank's arrow sliced through her bonds. Isolde crumpled onto Sheila's shoulder and the Thief eased to her knees so her legs wouldn't buckle under the girl's dead weight. Isolde drifted into consciousness at the sudden sensation of freedom and met Sheila's cloudy eyes with her dark ones. Although she was too weak to show her surprise, Isolde managed a grateful croak in the back of her throat to which Sheila responded with a soft smile. "You're welcome," she said.

"Isolde? Hang in there," Hank said quietly as he rushed to her side. The girl's eyes flew open then. They shimmered with unshed tears as she gazed, disbelieving, at the Ranger. She glanced down to his reddened tunic and stretched out a shaking hand to it.

"Rubin . . . ," she managed as she licked her parched lips. "He said . . ."

"He was exaggerating," Hank replied with a gentle smile as he clasped her trembling fingers. "It's a long story. I'll explain everything once we've gotten you back to your people." Isolde smiled weakly, and relaxed her body as she shut her eyes. Somehow, she felt that everything would be all right now.

Hank got around behind Isolde, and he froze. Even in the dim torchlight, he could see what had happened to her back. His stomach turned as his eyes settled on the newly formed slices created by Rubin's whip. The bloodied lesions had dried over the last few hours; moving her could easily mean reopening them. Hank didn't want to hurt her again, but they couldn't leave her here either. His hand hovered over the wounds, trying to think of the best way to cover them. He removed the cloak that he was wearing and draped it across her back. The girl winced at the touch of the fabric to her lacerated skin; a quiet whimper sounded from her throat. But she allowed him to proceed as he wrapped the cape entirely around her and lifted her off the ground.

For Isolde, the pain was excruciating, but she trusted Hank. She finally trusted someone. She grit her teeth and dealt with the pain.

"Okay," Hank hurriedly breathed, as he held Isolde tightly in his arms. "Let's find the others."

* * *

The Young Ones had actually managed to fight their way through the entrance of the Sect and into the main chamber. Bobby was their driving force as he clubbed his way into the bowels of the cavern, desperate to find his sister. Sheila had been down here far too long and the young Barbarian was a fit of anger and fear. If that Assassin had hurt her the way he hurt Hank, no force, in this world or any other, would be able to calm the boy's fury. He hopped up on a table and took a swing at the young assassins who were attacking him, splintering their weapons and driving them back. 

Eric spotted an open doorway and began to back toward it. He kept his shield raised in front of him and signaled to Diana that he was going to try and make a run for it. She moved into position to cover his retreat. The Cavalier decided that something must have happened to Sheila, and he was determined to find her. He wasn't about to lose another friend in this world.

"Keep them busy!" he shouted as he spun around and made a break for the darkened hallway ahead.

Diana's limbs throbbed as she parried the attack of an assassin who had tried to move past her to get to Eric. She remembered the words of her gymnastics coach during training sessions: the only way to truly work the muscles was to push them to the point of failure. She thought she must have gone beyond that point by now. And still the endless stream of combatants came at them.

_Failing or not, don't give up on me!_ she ordered her quivering muscles with an exhausted grunt as she used her staff to drop several more attackers.

Diana's body jolted with a start at the sensation of pressure against her body from behind. Her head spun around, and she saw Eric was now back-to-back with her. "I thought you left!" she shouted.

"Ch-change of plans!" Eric responded with a gulp. Diana shifted her gaze to see yet another band of assassins emerging from the corridor toward which Eric had previously been running. The rest of her friends had also begun backing toward her and the Cavalier. The four children and Uni formed a cluster in the center of the room, facing the young assassins who were closing in from all directions.

The Young Ones were completely surrounded.

* * *

"Stay back," Hank whispered a warning to Sheila. He positioned himself as flat against the wall as possible. The Thief stood behind him as a group of assassins ran past the entranceway ahead of them. "They're headed for the main chamber," Hank pointed out. "In a big hurry, too. I wonder if the—" 

"YEEEAAAGGGHHH!"

Sheila's head whipped around Hank's shoulder at the sound of the wordless battle cry. It had come from somewhere in the next room and below them. "That's Bobby!" she exclaimed. "He and the others must have gotten inside."

"And from the looks of things, they could probably use some help. There are a lot of assassins headed their way," Hank replied. He turned his attention to Isolde in his arms. "Looks like we're gonna have to scrap Plan A," he said. "She's in no condition to help us like this."

"So what's Plan B?" Sheila asked.

"Isolde, is there any way you can walk?" Hank asked. She nodded weakly and clenched her teeth as Hank helped her lower her feet to the floor. Sheila immediately reached out and gripped Isolde tightly, but gently.

"Plan B is you get Isolde out of here and I go in after the others," Hank said. "We'll meet up with you two outside. We'll have to think of another way to save the rest of the sect."

Sheila nodded with a desperate "Be careful." She began helping Isolde to limp away. The other girl arduously bit her lip. She clung to the Thief, as though Sheila were a human crutch.

Hank readied his bow as he rounded the corner and ran toward the main chamber.

* * *

"Back off, creep!" Bobby roared to an advancing attacker. "Or you'll be sorry!" The boy hefted his club threateningly, the fury in his eyes shrouding the fatigue of his body. 

"Presto!" Eric cried as he ducked behind his shield, "you're our resident wizard! How about a little _wiz_!"

"I-I'll try, Eric," Presto muttered nervously as he removed his hat and started twiddling.

"_Alaca-whatziz,  
__Please clear the room  
__By scattering these guys  
__With a loud ka_--"

_BOOM!_

The rest of Presto's spell was drowned out as several bright explosions erupted between the Young Ones and the advancing assassins, forcing the latter group to retreat back several feet.

Diana shielded her eyes from the intense flashes before gazing, flabbergasted, at Presto. Eric shared her stupefied expression.

"Whoa, Presto!" he gasped. "How did you—?"

The Magician shrugged confusedly, mouth gaping. "I-I didn't!" he exclaimed. "I didn't even get to finish the spell."

"Then what . . . ?" began Diana as she glanced instinctively around the large chamber. Her eyes finally settled on a ledge directly overhead. A shudder rippled through her body and she needed to re-grip her javelin to keep it from clattering out of her hands.

Eric followed her gaze and also froze. His hand gripped the shoulder of the person beside him to steady himself. When he saw that he had actually grabbed onto a nearby assassin, he recoiled with a nervous, "_Yeeesh_!" The Cavalier quickly raised his shield, then turned his attention back to the ledge.

Bobby, however, was not as tongue-tied as his friends. "_HANK!_" he whooped jubilantly as the Ranger drew another arrow.

"Get down!" Hank shouted. His friends obediently complied as the Ranger loosed his weapon toward the advancing assassins behind them. The arrow bound the attackers together and provided a window of escape for the others.

Diana straightened up and smiled. "Hank!" she breathed, quietly echoing Bobby's joy.

* * *

Isolde groaned in pain and gripped Sheila tighter to pull her to a stop. "What is it?" the Thief asked with concern. Isolde looked up at her, her face determined and commanding. 

"I need to go back, girl," she said, her voice just as assertively bold as Sheila remembered.

The Thief frowned. "We can't," she replied with rushed annoyance. "I have to get you out of here. Hank and the others are going to meet us outside."

"I will _not_ abandon—!"

"You're injured, Isolde. And it's too far to go back." Sheila unintentionally snapped at her. The look in Isolde's eyes said that she was determined to have her way, but Sheila would not back down either. "Hank can take care of himself," she added in frustration. The Thief hadn't wanted to leave Hank either, but she knew he wanted her to do this.

Isolde shook her head. "Not Hank," she insisted. "_My_ friends. I won't leave them here . . . with _him_."

Sheila understood that Isolde was referring to her fellow assassins. The Thief hesitated. Saving the members of the Choros Sect was the task that Dungeon Master had charged them with. But was this the best way to do it? Isolde was hurt very badly. Did she have the strength to lead them away from Rubin?

"We can't go back all that way, Isolde. It's too far," Sheila repeated firmly.

"I know a shorter way," Isolde assured her.

"Halt, intruders!"

The sharp order from behind caused Sheila to jump with a start. She spun her head around to see a young boyish assassin standing behind them. In his hands, he gripped a long spear.

"Turn around and approach me slowly," he commanded.

Sheila knew they couldn't run – not with Isolde like this. She would have to think of something, but she needed to buy time first. Holding firmly onto the other girl, Sheila started to bring them both slowly around to face the boy.

Isolde lifted her head from its spot against Sheila's chest. Her eyes watered in pain as she met the boy's gaze. "Korl," she croaked out, "you must let us by."

"I-Isolde?" the boy stuttered. "You're alive! Rubin said that Lloros had killed you." He shakily began to lower his spear.

"A lie," Isolde breathed as she tried to swallow her pain. "Everything Rubin has said has been a lie. You must let us by so we can stop him."

Korl suddenly gripped his spear tightly and raised it again, anger in his eyes. He began to advance on them with a slight limp. Sheila noticed that the boy was injured, as though he had been battered recently. Still, he came at them.

"If you are now against Rubin, you are against us all," he growled. His voice, however, seemed hesitant and robotic. "You know what happens to traitors, Isolde."

Isolde felt a panic well up inside of her. Was this how she had been? Blindly loyal to everything Rubin said? Had she been such a fool that she hadn't seen his cruel dominance?

Islode raised a shaky hand and gripped Sheila's shoulder. She turned her gaze upward at the Thief. "Please," she murmured, "Please, Sheila. Help me to save them. We have to go back. Please."

Sheila was startled as she met Isolde's eyes. This was the first time that the former assassin had actually called Sheila by her name, rather than by some degrading title. Isolde's face had become pleading and frightened as she trembled against the Thief's body.

"Please," she uttered again.

Sheila sighed. "I've never tried this before," she muttered as she eyed Korl approaching them menacingly. "I'm not sure if it will work with two people, but if you can trust me, I'll give it a try."

Isolde nodded shakily.

"Okay, then," Sheila exhaled. "Hang onto me tight!"

Isolde obeyed and clung firmly to Sheila as the Thief reached back for her hood. She yanked it over her head with one hand and swung the cape around both of them with the other. Korl charged with his spear raised, but came to a dead stop as both young women vanished before his eyes.

* * *

"Come on, guys!" the Ranger called to his friends. He fired another arrow and sent even more assassins retreating back. "We're getting out of—!" 

Hank's words were cut off by a sharp grunt, and he disappeared from sight.

"Hank!" the others cried in unison.

"Come on!" Eric yelled. He and the other Young Ones maneuvered around the fettered assassins and ducked out of reach of others. They headed toward a set of stone steps that Eric hoped would lead to the ledge above.

Hank had landed hard, face-down on the ground. He noticed a tight pressure around his legs, which released as Rubin's whip snaked away from them. The Ranger turned over quickly and looked for his bow, which had skidded across the floor and out of reach. He quickly scrambled forward and made a grab for it. His arm stretched out, and a steel-soled boot came down onto his hand.

Hank made a strangled growl as Rubin ground his foot into the knuckles that Islode had injured only days before. The Ranger could feel them bleeding again.

He glared angrily up as the Assassin wreathed his whip and attached it to his belt. Rubin then unsheathed his jagged sword, snarling down at Hank and applying even more painful pressure to the Ranger's damaged hand.

"You," Rubin spat. "You have caused far more trouble than you're worth, boy. I can now understand why my Master wished you dead." He pointed his sword at Hank. "This time I intend to make certain that you stay that way." Hank scowled at Rubin with unflinching contempt as the blade settled under his chin.

"_RUBIN!_"

The Assassin turned his head at the cry, which was accompanied by a sizzling surge of electric energy. Rubin found himself, once again, staring down the golden shaft of the Ranger's weapon. Only this time, it wasn't Hank who was leveling the arrow at him . . .

It was Isolde.

Sheila came tearing around the corner and slid to a dead stop at the scene before her. She had no idea where Isolde had gotten the strength to suddenly get away from her like that. The other Young Ones also made their way to the rocky escarpment and skidded to a halt behind Sheila.

"Isolde!" the Thief pleaded. She took a step toward her.

"Stay back, all of you!" the girl commanded, addressing them only with her voice as her eyes remained glued to Rubin. She winced in pain. Her lacerated shoulders spasmed as she drew Hank's arrow farther back, poised by her cheek to kill.

Isolde stepped closer to Rubin, emerging on the ledge in full view of the assassins below. "Get away from him!" she hissed, prompting Rubin to remove his foot from the Ranger's hand and pull back his sword. The Assassin turned slowly, fastening a furious glare onto his former protégé. Hank's right hand instinctively flew to his damaged one. He climbed to his knees and began to see stars as he finally allowed himself a split second to focus on the pain.

A split second, however, was all he could afford.

The Ranger looked at Isolde as he rose to his feet. A maddened smile had spread across her lips and her eyes flashed with the same murderous gleam that Hank had first noticed in them. Her entire body trembled as she stared Rubin down. It was amazing that the fire in her eyes hadn't caused the man to instantly combust where he stood.

"_Liar!_" she hissed again.

"Be careful, girl," Rubin cautioned. If he was panicked, he was hiding it well. "The others can see how you are bringing chaos to their order. If you fell me, they will never permit you to escape alive. They know their place, unlike some _traitors_." He spoke his words carefully – maliciously enough to try and shake Isolde's nerve and loudly enough for his other followers to hear key statements.

Isolde began to cackle maniacally. "They _know_?" she laughed. "And just _what_ do they know? Do they know that _you_ are the one who betrayed them? Each and every one of them? Just as you betrayed me?" She took a staggering step toward him. "What do your rules of conduct and order say when the defiler is _you_, Rubin?" she growled. "You stole me away from my home, convinced me that Lloros was my enemy, and filled me with the lust for his blood. _MY OWN FATHER'S BLOOD!_"

A few confused gasps and murmurs rose up from the crowd below.

"Wretched girl," Rubin snarled. "You dare attempt to start an insurrection? After all I have done for you?" He raised his sword.

Perhaps it was her fury, or perhaps it was a knee-jerk reaction from panic, but Isolde instantly loosed an arrow and grazed Rubin's shoulder. He dropped his blade in his hand with a growl and it clattered over the ledge into the main hall below. With wild, terrified eyes, Isolde quickly drew another arrow and leveled it at Rubin once more.

"What you have done is kept me a prisoner and trained me to kill so that I might exact _your_ revenge against my father!" Isolde said, her arms trembling as much as her voice as she held the arrow. The flame of the weapon burned as brightly as Hank had ever seen, matching the girl's intense emotion. "What former loved ones must _they_ kill for your revenge, Rubin?" Isolde motioned to the other assassins in the main chamber below. "Fathers? Mothers? Friends? People who care for us – who would meet their deaths at our hands because of your twisted revenge!" Isolde steeled herself; the arrow's flame was mirrored in her eyes.

"This ends," she said. Her voice was suddenly low and as jagged as torn metal. "Now."

"Isolde," came a gentle voice from beside the raging girl.

Isolde did not look at Hank, although she began trembling again as she became aware of his presence.

"Do not try to stop me, Hank," she shuddered as she gripped the electric bowstring even tighter. Sheila took a few frantic steps toward them, but Hank stopped her with a raised hand.

"What are you waiting for, wench?" Rubin provoked tauntingly, trying to bring her attention away from Hank and back to him. "Go on. Do it."

"Don't do this, Isolde," Hank pleaded as he reached for the weapon. "You don't have to."

"_Yes, I do!_" Isolde growled with another manic giggle as she shrugged away from his reaching hand. Suddenly her voice crumbled into a cracked sob. "It would be so easy, Hank. So easy," she whimpered as she gripped the bow. "After what he did to my father . . . to me . . . . After what he tried to do to you."

"Isolde, remember when I told you that I understood?" Hank asked gently. "I do. I do understand because I've been where you are. So believe me when I tell you that destroying him won't make it better. All it will do is make you a killer. And you're _not_ a killer, Isolde. I know you're not."

"He tried to turn me into a killer," the girl smoldered. Her aim was still true, although her body continued to tremble with rage and fear.

"Let us see what you have learned," Rubin interrupted again. "Hesitation is a sign of weakness, girl. Kill me."

"And if you do this, he'll succeed," Hank said, ignoring Rubin with impossible calm. "He's not worth that."

Isolde began to cry fully. "I just want it to be over," she wept. "Just to be over . . ."

Hank finally succeeded in gripping the bow; his bloodied left hand closed gently over Isolde's trembling one. She allowed herself to meet his gaze – turning her head with tears streaming down her face.

"It _is_ over," Hank said. "He can't hurt you or the others any more. My friends and I are going to take you home . . . to your father."

Isolde's body shook with sobs as she relinquished her hold on the Ranger's weapon. Hank gripped the bowstring and the fierce arrow dissolved into the air. He angrily eyed the defeated Rubin who staggered back a few steps.

There was relief on Rubin's face; he had clearly believed Isolde would have killed him.

Isolde's body sagged and she turned face Hank. Her eyes were sad – full of remorse and humiliation. She was unable to meet the Ranger's gaze for very long. Instead she turned her eyes to the many children gathered in the hall below. They were looking up at her – quiet and confused. She managed a sad smile. "It _is_ over," she whispered, echoing Hank's words. "For all of us."

Hank smiled and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Hank!" Sheila shouted as she finally rushed forward. "Are you two all right?" She appeared beside Hank, who nodded. His smile widened as he turned to her, momentarily taking his eyes off Rubin.

A hollow ringing echoed in Isolde's ears: The quick _chink_ of metal sliding against metal. It had gone unnoticed by the others, but it was one of the sounds that she knew by heart. She started instinctively and spun around, pulling away from Hank's hand.

"Rubin . . ." she said.

Isolde turned to find him looming directly over her. She met his gaze full-on and her body jolted in alarm. The Assassin's mud-brown eyes sparked as he looked down at the girl and his lips curled over his teeth.

Hank's attention snapped back to what was in front of him. He stiffened as he saw Isolde's body suddenly go rigid. A weak, surprised noise rattled up from her throat as she staggered back. Hank saw Rubin pull the dagger he had drawn out of the side of her abdomen.

Hank and Sheila reached forward to catch Isolde as she slid to the floor. Hank could only stare for a moment in shock – first at Isolde, then at Rubin.

The Assassin re-sheathed his blade in the small metal scabbard at his waist. "Now you all see," he growled to the entire room. "_That_ is what happens to traitors."

Hank finally forced himself to move and his body jerked toward Rubin in anger. The Assassin turned and fled into the shadows behind him.

"Take care of her, Sheila," Hank instructed the Thief as he clambered to grab his bow. He sprinted into the dark corridor after Rubin.

Sheila continued to cradle the injured girl. Diana flew to assist her friend and applied desperate pressure to Isolde's bleeding side. The girl whimpered in delirious agony and grabbed instinctively onto Sheila's hand. Presto's fingers twiddled madly over his hat, in the hopes of pulling out something he could use as a tourniquet. Eric shoved his way past the Magician and sprinted after Hank with Bobby at his heals.

* * *

Rubin scrambled around several dark corners in an attempt to lose the pursuing Young Ones. He soon found himself at the doorway to the Chamber of Ghosts. Glancing behind him, he could see the light from Hank's drawn arrow approaching from around the distant corner. Rubin slipped inside the chamber and barricaded the door from within. 

Hank reached the door moments later and ran into it shoulder first. It was clearly locked – a fact which didn't stop Hank from throwing himself against it again. In his steely anger, he almost didn't notice the hand that soon gripped his shoulder. He turned to see Eric beside him.

"Need some help, buddy?" the Cavalier grinned as he joined Hank in attempting to break the door down. The ancient wood didn't even creak.

"Wait," Hank panted as he backed off. "Wait." Eric stepped to the side as well and Hank took aim at the door. He unleashed a barrage of light arrows in rapid succession. None of them could dent the door.

"Let me try!" a voice shouted from behind them. It was followed by a barbarous, wordless cry. Hank and Eric stepped aside as Bobby came barreling through, his weapon raised. The sound of the club striking the door resonated like a gong through the labyrinthed halls.

"Hold it, Bobby," Hank said, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder before he could try again. The Ranger looked puzzled. "That didn't sound like the door," he said. "There must be some kind of magical field around it."

"What?" Eric cried. "So how're we gonna get in?"

The sound of a shouting mob rose in the three boys' ears. Hank, Eric and Bobby spun around to see Rubin's assassins bearing down upon them, weapons raised. Eric ducked behind his shield as the horde of youths overtook them.

He cautiously peeked out after several seconds of not being attacked.

"Step aside, Ranger," said one of the young assassins, addressing Hank.

"Korl," Hank replied. "Please, we have to—"

The boy grinned wryly. "We are here to help you, brother," he interrupted. "Just as you tried to help Isolde. As you once tried to help me."

* * *

Rubin backed away from the door and listened, panic-stricken, to the Young Ones' attempts to get inside. He prudently gripped his upper arm, where Isolde had struck him with Hank's arrow. The wound burned intensely, but didn't bleed. The light arrow must have cauterized it instantly. 

Rubin glared fearfully at the door. That wooden barricade alone should not have been enough to hold them. Not with their magical weapons. And now, it seemed as though Rubin's own assassins were attempting to break the door down. Yet all were somehow prevented from entering. That could only mean one thing . . .

"Master!" Rubin whispered with equal parts fear and relief. He glanced around the lighted circle in which he stood, searching for his savior.

A thunderous voice echoed through the chamber. "Rubin. I am here."

The Assassin, unable to pinpoint exactly where the voice was coming from, slid to his knees and invoked the ceiling. "Master, thank you! Thank you for keeping them from reaching me!" He fell prostrate, cowering in homage and gratitude before his unseen lord.

"Fear not, Rubin," the voice rumbled. "Your punishment shall never be met at the hands of the Young Ones."

"Thank you. Thank you," Rubin chanted, keeping his face to the ground.

"I reserve that for myself."

The Assassin looked up in panicked confusion. "What? No!" he protested in a terrified voice. "Master, I—"

"—have failed me for the last time, Rubin. I warned you that another failure would result in severe punishment."

Rubin shook his head in frantic objection as his Master's words echoed through the shadows all around him.

"Not only were you unable to dispose of the Ranger, but Lloros and Xanaton have not fallen. You have furthermore lost control over your entire sect of assassins. You shall suffer greatly for this."

Rubin watched in horror as a dead pale hand emerged from the shadows, aglow with a violent fiery light. A convulsion shook him and he scrambled backward, begging abjectly, "Master! Please! Show mercy! I shall not fail you again!"

"No, Rubin," the voice sneered, "you shall not."

As the flaming light was released, an ear-splitting shriek filled the chamber. It remained as a horrific echo, long after all else had vanished.

* * *

"What happened?" Eric asked, cautiously quiet. The crowd of youngsters had gathered around the door of the Chamber of Ghosts, their ears pressed intently to the wood. After it had become apparent that they would be denied entrance, they began to hear muffled cries from within. They ceased their attacks upon the door at that point and just listened. A surging blast was the last thing they heard before an eerie silence hung in the air. The doors then creaked open of their own power. 

Hank eyed the doors suspiciously. "I don't know, Eric," he answered after several seconds of startled silence. The entire group moved cautiously toward the door and entered the Chamber of Ghosts.

The room was completely empty. Rubin was gone.

Korl instructed the assassins to each grab one of the free-standing torches that circled the center of the room and check the shadows around the perimeter for any signs of their treacherous leader. They found none. In fact, all exits were bolted from the inside.

"H-he got away?" Bobby asked, looking around at the vacant chamber.

Hank held his arrow aloft for more light. There was an odd electric charge in the air, and a strange, very unpleasant smell that Hank couldn't quite place. "Somehow, I don't think so, Bobby," he guessed.

They didn't waste any more time in the Chamber of Ghosts. While Korl and the young assassins did a final search of the room, Hank, Eric, and Bobby dashed out the door and back to where they had left the others.

* * *

Sheila raised her eyes nervously, fearful that it was Rubin coming back and not Hank. When she saw the Ranger round the corner that led back to the escarpment on which she sat holding Isolde, she breathed a sigh of partial relief. Her worried look never disappeared from her face completely, however. 

The Thief's appearance of distress was contagious and Hank visibly paled when he met her eyes. "Is she . . . ?" he asked.

"She's alive," Diana answered as she applied pressure to Isolde's wound with a hotel towel that Presto had produced from his hat. Then she shook her head. "I don't think Rubin hit anything major, but there's no way of knowing for sure," she said. "She may be all right, but we have to get her some help. Now."

That answer was only partially reassuring to Hank. He knew how long it would take to get Isolde back to Xanaton, and he could see, from the look of the towel Diana was holding, that she had already lost a great deal of blood. He knelt beside Sheila as Korl and the other members of the Choros Sect returned to the room.

"Isolde?" Hank asked cautiously. "Don't worry. We're going to get you home." He placed his hand on top of hers.

Isolde blinked her eyes open. They were pained and glassy, but alert. She glanced at the people around her.

"Isolde," Hank said resolutely. "You're okay. You're going to be all right; we just have to get you out of here."

"Forgive me," the girl whispered. "Forgive me for the trouble that I have caused."

"_Nonsense, my child._"

The entire group turned as the Dungeon Master strode amiably through the parting crowd.

"Dungeon Master," Sheila breathed in a sigh of relief. "Are we glad to see you!"

He smiled warmly at each of his Young Ones before settling his kind eyes on Isolde. "_Contrary to what you may think, my dear, you have done more good than you know. You have aided these Young Ones in saving the League of the Soul . . . and, in return, have found your own as well._" He turned to Hank. "_And to you, Ranger: Your trust in your own heart has helped Isolde to find the good in hers. Well done, my boy._"

"Dungeon Master," Hank said, "is there anything you can do to help?"

The gnomish old man sighed and approached the injured girl. Her eyes were hazy and full of fear as he placed a gnarled hand upon her moist forehead. Isolde swallowed hard before whispering beseechingly to Dungeon Master, "I want to go home."

"_That can be easily arranged,_" Dungeon Master said with a smile. "_I have an old friend who has been deeply missing his daughter._" Isolde relaxed and closed her eyes again. Her breath evened out and she slept.

Dungeon Master turned again to his pupils, taking particular note of Hank's lingering worry. "_Do not fear, my friends,_" he said. "_Everything will be all right now._"

His hands began to glow with an electric, silvery light – one he had once used to transport the Young Ones and himself across the Realm. The ancient mage concentrated as he summoned the strength needed for his magic to envelop all of them.

"Where are we going?" Bobby asked.

"_The lost souls are returning home, Barbarian_," Dungeon Master replied. "_And we are going back to Xanaton._"

"You're sending everybody home?" Eric cried. "How come it's never that easy for us?" he added in a groaning complaint to Presto.

"_Your purpose is more complex, Cavalier_," the old man responded as the silvery light surrounded everyone in the chamber. "_Every task that you undertake lays the path to your home world._"

"Pfft," Eric scoffed under his breath. "What's he paving it in? Gold?"

Dungeon Master continued to speak gently. "_My friends, for every lost soul that you help to find their way, you come one step closer to finding yours. One day, you shall find the soul who will complete your journey. For no child should ever remain lost._"

As the magical glow engulfed everyone to teleport them away from the sect, Hank looked at the Dungeon Master. He was convinced he saw tears in the old man's eyes.

* * *

When Isolde awoke, it was to the sight of Lloros' weary but smiling face. As she glanced around, she began to recognize her old bedroom in Xanaton. Her hand stirred against her wounded abdomen. 

"Try not to move," Lloros instructed. "The healers have been able to treat many of your wounds, but it would be best if you remained still for a while." Although it pained him greatly to see his daughter like this, the mage's eyes twinkled with adoration, gratitude, and pure joy at just having her here – alive and safe.

Isolde's eyes brimmed with tears, both from happiness and from lingering guilt. "I am so sorry, Papa," she started to say.

Lloros, unable to hold himself back any longer, swept the girl into his arms with the exuberance of love that only a father can have for his child. He held on to her as though he needed to make up for the time he had lost. "My Isolde. My precious, precious treasure. It is I who am sorry. I shall never leave you alone again."

Isolde could feel his love, almost as though it flowed through her – a kind of magic. That magic would always be here to protect her now. She would heal. They both would.

Lloros placed his daughter back upon her pillow and smiled again. "There is someone else here who is grateful to see that you are finally awake. He and his friends are leaving today and he wished to see you before he departs." The mage rose and stepped away. Isolde could see that Hank had been standing behind him. She smiled brightly as he sat beside her.

Her smile became a solemn one as she met his eyes. "You are leaving?" she asked sadly as she tried to sit upright.

Hank nodded. "You found your home," he said. "We need to keep looking for ours."

"I shall never forget you, Flax," Isolde teased, then corrected herself with a gracious nod of her head. "Hank."

The Ranger laughed. "Hey, as long as you're going to be okay, you can call me whatever you want."

"Thank you," Isolde said quietly, echoing the sentiment that Lloros and his people had been bestowing upon the Young Ones during their stay in the city. "Thank you for everything." She reached forward and Hank took her hand. Isolde looked down at the fresh bandaging around his knuckles where she had cut him. "Did the healers not cure you?" she questioned.

Hank shrugged. "For the most part," he answered. "The injury is healed, but some of the marks are still there." He looked at her with a grin. "There are some scars I don't mind living with. And I'll never forget you either."

Isolde looked at him for a moment as though she might say something else. Then simply gave his hand a squeeze. "I told you that everything would be all right," Hank said as he got up to leave. "I know it's going to stay that way for you now, Isolde."

"Hank?"

The Ranger turned.

"I would be very grateful for a kiss goodbye," Isolde said timidly.

Hank smiled as he remembered how she had practically forced herself on him a few days ago. She was very different now. He bent down and placed a gentle, if somewhat hesitant, kiss on her forehead.

Isolde looked up at him and smiled one last time. "You will thank Sheila for me as well?" she asked.

"I will," the Ranger answered as he turned to exit the room. He paused in the doorway and saw that Lloros had once more taken the girl in his arms: Two lost souls who had finally found each other again.

Hank descended the stairs to rejoin the others, who were outside preparing to leave. He was stopped by Golon on the way. The man placed his hand on the Ranger's shoulder with a sheepish half-smile.

"Thank you, my friend," he said to Hank. "I hope you can forgive me for my accusations. I was bitterly wrong. You and your companions truly are allies to the people of Xanaton. If there is anything we can ever do, name it and it shall be done."

Hank clasped hands with the man and nodded gratefully. "Thanks, Golon," he said, and continued down the stairs to meet his friends.

Eric met him first, just outside the door. "Hey," he said, "You ready?"

Hank nodded.

"Listen," the Cavalier warily continued, "I just wanted to say that I'm glad you're back. Glad you're not . . . you know."

Hank smirked at Eric's earnestness, and reached out to take his friend's hand. They held a firm handshake for a few seconds, then Eric tugged on the Ranger's arm, pulling him into a grateful hug. "I don't know what we'd do without you, buddy," Eric continued. His words were more sincere than they had been the time they rescued Hank from the Darkling. However, Eric being Eric, he still didn't want to have the Ranger looking at him when he said them. He threw in some of his hallmark wisecracks after releasing Hank from the hug. "Can you warn us though . . . the next time you want to take an extended vacation without us? I don't know how many more of these I can take."

"That reminds me," Hank said as the others approached. "Here, Presto. I owe you one, pal." The Ranger reached beneath his leather tunic, into his small hip pouch, and pulled out a small, empty, and slightly crushed cardboard box. He tossed it to the Magician. "That thing probably saved my life."

Presto inspected the box and let out a tiny laugh. "I remember this!" he exclaimed. "It's the Jell-O!"

"Yep," Hank affirmed. "When I thought we'd use it some night, I figured we'd eat it. I never dreamed I'd be filling a water skin with it so I could fake my own death."

Bobby stared wide-eyed and impressed. "How'd you make it cold?"

"One hour in the Choros Sect ice chamber and you have instant frozen Jell-O. A few more hours in a water skin under my tunic and you have one dagger-proof stomach complete with the fakest looking blood you've ever seen."

Presto beamed at his inadvertent ability to help. He looked at Eric. "It may not have been as fancy as crème brûlée, but it was sure a heck of a lot more useful." The Cavalier scoffed in response.

Diana approached Hank with a look of mock annoyance. "Well, Ranger, it wasn't fake enough to keep us from being frantic about you," she scolded. As Hank started to apologize (for about the millionth time since arriving back in Xanaton) Diana's disapproval melted into a bright smile. She threw her arms around his neck, just grateful that he was alive.

As Diana backed away from Hank, her eyes fell on Sheila. "Ahem," she cleared her throat. "I think we should scout ahead to make sure everything's on the up-and-up. Wouldn't you agree, boys?"

Presto and Bobby hurriedly nodded and Uni pranced ahead of them as they strode toward the gates of Xanaton, looking back with impish grins.

Diana had not gone a few steps before she was forced to turn back to get Eric, who had again missed her point. "Let's go, Eric," she instructed. "Presto, Bobby and Uni need us."

"What?" Eric asked lamely. He motioned to Hank and Sheila. "If they're not ready to go yet, then I don't see why—"

His words were cut off as Diana tightly gripped his arm and dragged him toward the drawbridge. "C'mon, Cavalier," she droned. "You're with me."

Eric stumbled after her, tripping over his own metal boots. "Aw, Diana," he teased, "I always knew I'd grow on ya."

"Yeah," the Acrobat scoffed, "like a fungus."

Hank and Sheila followed their friends out of the city, but lagged behind. When they reached the rolling hills just beyond Xanaton, Sheila pulled Hank to a stop. "I need to say something," she told him quietly.

Hank did not respond, but simply looked at her. The morning suns were shining upon her face and reflected in her eyes. Hank couldn't remember the last time she looked so beautiful. He shook the thought out of his head. These were exactly the kinds of ideas he had to avoid if he was to continue to get them all safely through this Realm and back home. His responsibilities as leader—

"Hank?" Sheila's voice cut through his reverie.

"Sorry," Hank apologized. "I was listening. I just . . ." Hank glanced around awkwardly. This was the place where he had released Isolde and then followed her toward the Choros Sect . . . where he had ordered Sheila to go on into Xanaton without him . . . where he had kissed . . . Oh, God, why had he allowed himself to do that?

"When I thought you died," he heard the Thief say, "I felt more lost and alone than I ever felt in my entire life." Hank suddenly felt his face get very hot.

"It was more than just losing a great friend," Sheila continued.

Hank felt his stomach give an uncomfortable flip-flop. He was eager to hear what she had to say, but dreading it at the same time.

"We would have lost a wonderful leader."

Hank unconsciously narrowed his eyes. That, he had not been expecting.

"I don't know if you realize this, Hank," Sheila went on, "but you are the reason we've gotten this far. You've been strong, and brave, and determined. You've taught us to believe in ourselves and you always seem to be able to make everything turn out all right. When we make it out of this Realm and finally go home, it will all be because of you. I hope you know that."

"Wow," Hank breathed. He managed a modest smile. "Thank you, Sheila, that's very . . ."

"I hope you also know that I understand the responsibilities you have as leader," Sheila interrupted. "I know that part of the reason you _are_ such a good leader is that you are loyal to those responsibilities no matter what. I want you to know that I would never do anything to make you feel as though you've abandoned those responsibilities. Never. You work so hard for all of us and I can't stand the thought that you might feel as though you've failed somehow."

Hank was puzzled. "Sheila, I . . ." His words stopped as the Thief placed her hand on his face.

"But," Sheila concluded, "you show us every day how much you care about us. And I also can't stand the idea of losing you again – or ever – without showing you how much I care about you."

Sheila paused for a moment, biting her lip as though thinking carefully. Then she stood on her toes, raising herself up to Hank's level. She cupped his face in her hands and brushed his lips gently with hers. What was little more than a whisper of pressure sent a tingling flood through the Ranger's entire body. He began to raise unconscious hands to the small of her back.

Sheila did not permit herself to linger there for very long. In less time than it took for Hank's heart to skip a beat, the Thief had lowered her feet to the ground again. The Ranger swallowed hard, speechless. When Isolde kissed him, for as beautiful as she was, he had truthfully felt nothing. Now, with Sheila, all he wanted was to sweep her into his arms and never let her go.

If Sheila hadn't spoken again, he may have done just that.

"I don't want you to feel torn," she said, her eyes averted for the moment. "I don't want you to imagine that you need to play favorites or anything. I just wanted you to know. Because tomorrow's too uncertain – especially in this place." She met his eyes again and smiled brightly at him before turning to walk after Bobby and the others.

"Sheila," Hank said, causing her to stop and face him. He inhaled deeply. "This whole thing . . . us being here in this world . . . it started with a date at the park, remember?"

Sheila nodded.

"When it's finally over, what would you say to finishing it?"

Sheila smiled again. "I'd say lead on, Ranger. I'll be here. Always."

Hank made a few quick paces to stand beside Sheila and looped his arm toward her. As he looked at her, he wondered how long it would be before he could tell the beautiful Thief how she had stolen his heart.

With a dancing smile in her eyes, Sheila took his arm and they picked up their pace so they might catch up with the others.

To be concluded . . .


	8. Epilogue

**Disclaimer:** All standard disclaimers apply. I don't own the series, but I do own the story.

**Rating:** PG-13 for violent situations and mild language

**Author's Notes:** Thanks, again, to everyone for reading! I appreciated the encouragement, as well as the gracious feedback. I hope you have all enjoyed the story.

* * *

**_Through a Mirror Darkly _**

**by N.L. Rummi**

* * *

_**  
Epilogue**_

Venger dismissed his spectral lackey upon hearing Shadow Demon's report: The Young Ones had departed from Xanaton. He turned to the window that overlooked the vast nothingness surrounding his dark fortress – the barren landscape that extended far beyond the horizon. He held a brooding fist to his mouth.

Perhaps destroying Rubin had been in haste. Had it not actually been Dungeon Master and his accursed pupils who had foiled the Assassin's mission?

The Young Ones . . . as always.

The Dark Lord seethed as his mind fell upon the loathsome, interfering children. Perhaps Rubin could have been useful, yet. Although he had failed in doing so, he had, in fact, been in position to deliver a killing strike to the Ranger. Perhaps the next time . . .

Venger felt a moisture in his palm. He opened the fist that he had been holding to his chin to see that he had begun to bleed. He glared with apathetic disinterest at the punctures that his clawed nails had created in his palm.

No. Rubin had been a fool. An expendable fool. The Dark Lord's eyes flashed a bright crimson. He looked at his fist as he clenched it once more. It began to glow.

Yes, the next time . . . Next time he would take matters into his own hands.

**The End**


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